


Chicken Soup for the Cursed Soul

by ladyknightanka



Category: Suits (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst and Humor, Blood, Bromance, Crossover, Demons, Explicit Sexual Content, Family, Hurt/Comfort, Light Bondage, M/M, Mild Language, Non Consensual, Original Character Death(s), Other, Possession, Rough Sex, Sexual Content, Violence, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-16
Updated: 2011-12-16
Packaged: 2017-10-27 10:30:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/294813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyknightanka/pseuds/ladyknightanka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Upon Mary's death, another one of the Campbells, a female cousin, escaped the hunting life. She and her husband die in a mysterious accident a decade later, leaving their seven year old son, Mike, in his grandmother's care. Although he's been like a little brother to them, the Winchesters haven't seen Mike since Sam left for Stanford, when a case in New York suddenly throws them all together again. Mike is not aware of the supernatural world, but it, unfortunately, knows all about him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chicken Soup for the Cursed Soul

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the first round of [Suits big bang](http://suitsbigbang.livejournal.com/profile). My masterpost on LiveJournal is [here](http://ladyknightanka.livejournal.com/22071.html). Enjoy!

 

 -

Chicken Soup for the Cursed Soul

-

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](http://s690.photobucket.com/albums/vv262/theladypendragon/I%20Eat%20Everything/?action=view&current=ladyknightfic.png)

-

Caroline Ross – known as Carol to all her loved ones – had just finished tucking her seven year old grandson in when she got the call.

They had been reading _Alice in Wonderland_ , which always amused them both, but she felt all mirth melt away when the cautious, unfamiliar male voice on the other line inquired, “Is this the mother of Lilian C. Ross?”

“Mother-in-law,” she murmured, her level voice belying the rushed tempo of her heart. “I'm Gabriel's mother, though – Gabriel Ross, Lily's husband.”

There was a pause. She dreaded what was to come, her own words lodged in her throat. She didn't want to provoke a response. Then, the man said, “We'd appreciate it if you could come down to the hospital, ma’am. There's been an...accident.”

Carol barely waited long enough to get the directions – there were far too many hospitals in New York and she _hated_ the urgent need for them – before she was begging Jane, the sweet young woman next door, to watch over Mike while she was gone. Her watery eyes probably did wonders to convince the girl, but Carol was beyond caring about composure.

It was a bit chilly outside, the sky a black-blue splattered with stars, but she barely noticed. Her brain ran through a million different scenarios while she drove, faster than she had in years. Why had they called for Lily and not her son? What could have happened? Had they even made it to Mike's parent-teacher conference? What could a first grader's teacher possibly have to say that was so pressing, so late in the day?

She hurried through the automatic hospital doors, tugging her worn shawl closer to fight the nightly drop of temperature, and stopped in front of the receptionist's desk. “I'm here to see Gabriel and Lilian Ross,” she informed the bespectacled young man behind it.

He smiled at her genially, which helped to ease her nerves, but a shadow passed over his face, quickly tamed into passivity, as soon as he regarded the information on the computer screen, and she just _knew_ – motherly instinct, she might later relate to others. At that moment, however, all she felt was an imaginary fist squeezing her heart into pulp.

“Mrs. Ross is still in surgery, but you can wait inside, ma'am. The doctor will be with you shortly,” the receptionist said, tone gentle and pitying. She nodded and hardly felt her neck creak. 'Shortly' soon became an hour, filled with numb thoughtlessness and blank stares toward the operation theater entrance. Lily was in surgery; why hadn't he mentioned Gabriel?

She was in such a stupor that she nearly missed it when the doctor finally did exit. The sight of blood – her _family's_ blood – on his starkly white coat rose bile in her throat, but she stood up to greet him nonetheless. Her vision spun and blurred at the motion. Beside them, a body was wheeled away on a stretcher, its face hidden by a white sheet.

“I'm Carol Ross, Gabriel's mother. What's happened, Doctor?” she asked, wringing her weathered hands together. Her warm brown eyes tracked the frenzied orderlies through yet another door.

“I am Ash Charya, your daughter-in-law's head physician,” the doctor said, leading her back to the waiting room seats and taking one at her side. “I'm so sorry, Carol. Your son died on impact.” Carol's stomach dropped at the words and she wanted nothing more than to fall apart, right there on the clean linoleum floors, to let her tears mix with the nearby janitor's soapy water onto the tiles. However, Doctor Charya, after a pause that didn't last nearly long enough, kept speaking. Carol forced herself to listen.

Her son's car had abruptly swerved out of control. No other drivers were at fault. In fact, the police were still investigating the charred wreck of the small sedan, but had yet to determine what caused the crash. Gabriel had been hit dead on, had died instantly, while Lily scarcely avoided the same fate.

“She's not doing well,” Doctor Charya began, low and grave. “There was a lot of damage done to her skull and we did our best to staunch the bleeding inside, but it's miraculous enough that she's even still awake, with the brain damage. You should go see her now, if you have any last...goodbyes.”

Carol nodded and accepted his offered hand, allowing him to walk her to Lily's – likely temporary – room, located in the ICU. The sight of her beautiful daughter-in-law jellied her already weak knees and left Carol grateful for the doctor's help.

Most of Lily's fair blond hair, a trait she had passed on to little Mike, had either been shaved for the surgery or burned during the crash, and what remained was stained with both dry and fresh blood. Her face was an unrecognizable mess, save for the glassy blue eyes that blinked at them from behind bruised eyelids, and her bandaged fingers beckoned Carol forward weakly, the arms attached trapped in heavy casts.

Doctor Charya took this opportunity to draw back. His hand brushed Carol's shoulder once, before the two women were left alone. “Hello, d-dear,” Carol whispered, steeling herself enough to walk forward and sit on the provided chair, her hand immediately seeking her daughter-in-law's.

Lily had always been more like a daughter than merely her son's wife. She had no family of her own, the poor girl, having lost them when she was young, and Gabriel fell for her at first sight when they met in Canada, where he was participating in an international teacher's convention and she was an art store clerk. He didn't want to leave her behind after it ended, so he proposed and Lily accepted, finally finding the home she'd always wanted.

Carol had initially been wary of the whirlwind romance, but Lily was fiercely protective of them all, cherishing them to the point of paranoia, as if they'd be stolen away the minute she turned her head. She treated Gabriel well and considered Carol her mother but, most of all, Lily gifted her with the most beautiful grandson in the world.

The thought of Mike broke Carol's heart all over again and Lily, even in her battered daze, seemed to sense that. “M-Mikey?” she mumbled, most of her teeth gone and her mouth a gaping red.

“At home, sweetheart, perfectly safe,” Carol reassured her. She gave her daughter-in-law's hand another squeeze. “It's you I'm worried about.”

Lily was quiet for a moment. Carol feared she would press the matter, but instead, she ceased to ask about Mike any longer. What tumbled out of her was far more surreal – stories too horribly imaginative to ever share with their seven year old baby.

Carol felt herself blanch with every new word, until finally, Lily hushed. Her lids drooped heavily, as curtains heaved and fell at a grand performance's end. With her last breath, she said two words, “My journal...” Then she was gone.

Carol sat there for the longest time and stared disbelievingly at Lily's corpse. Doctors and nurses passed through in a rush, emotions flitting too quickly over their faces to catch, but Doctor Charya soon ended the charade with another solemn shake of his head.

“I'm sorry,” he said again, to which Carol nodded and shakily stood up. She declined his aid when he volunteered to escort her out, and left the medical staff to take care of her daughter-in-law's remains. Slowly, she walked through the quiet halls and to the parking lot.

She drove home, somehow managing the journey with unseeing eyes, then stirred when she heard desperate shushing sounds and her grandson's wails. Jane was in Mike's guest room, her arms around the distraught boy, and she looked up gratefully at Carol arrival.

“What happened?” Carol inquired, unintentionally sharp. “You didn't tell him, did you?”

“No, of course not,” Jane replied, smoothing a hand down Mike's wet cheek. “He just woke up and wouldn't stop crying.”

In a few days, Carol would heed Lily's dying words and find the journal – one that she had seen often and had assumed was simply a well-guarded diary – in her son's home. She would find graphic drawings and an impressive list of phone numbers inside, which would only corroborate the nightmare she'd heard, and she'd locate someone to avenge her family's untimely death. Right then, however, she took her grandson into her arms and rocked him, till Jane shut the door behind her and returned to her own house.

Like endlessly deep rabbit holes and cruel queens of heart, none of this made sense anymore.

-

It was the scratching sound that woke Mike, dull like shoes scuffing across the cheap carpet outside his bedroom. He'd always been a heavy sleeper, especially since he'd begun running himself ragged at work, so he might have been inclined to ignore it, but Morpheus never failed to release him after _the_ dream: the one that recollected the night of his parents' death. He hadn't had it in a while.

Afterward, he was always left hyper-aware. His skin stretched too thin over his bones, his breath puffed audibly, and the faint noise outside became perceptible again, the thump-thump of human footsteps.

Mike shot up in bed, pulling crumpled sheets around his shirtless form, and scoped the dark depths of his room. The blinds on his window had been damaged not long ago, so moonlight seeped in freely, weakened only by the cover of wispy clouds.

For a long time, a whole five minutes, he sat like that, frozen, and dismissed the urge to burrow back under his blankets like a frightened child. They wouldn't find anything, anyway, and then they'd leave, simple as that.

Curiosity congealed with his nerves, however, and his urge to explore won out over blissful ignorance. Mike slowly slipped out of bed. His hands found the closest weapon within reach – a small desk lamp in the shape of a Jedi – which helped to bolster his courage.

He quietly skulked toward the door, the green and red luminescence of Luke Skywalker's lightsaber brightening his path, but he couldn't quite contain his relief when a quick sweep of his living room confirmed that it, at least, was empty of anything but its usual clutter. The shadows that shifted menacingly from beneath the brim of his kitchen door determinedly attested otherwise. Mike's ears started to thrum in time with the frantic beat of his heart.

He reached out to set his hand on the knob and felt the contours of the dented metal on it, but pulled back as if his palm had burned when it began to turn in his grasp. Before he could retreat enough steps, the door thrust open and hit him square in the face. His lamp dashed against the floor. Mike made a sound suspiciously like a squeak at the dark form that bore down on him.

It whipped him around so he couldn't see its face. A decidedly male arm, or that of a very athletic woman, wrapped around his neck, not quite tight enough to actually hurt him. Despite his genius IQ, Mike had no idea what to do. Struggling might get him killed. Not struggling might do the same. Either way, he was screwed.

The thought was only cemented when he heard another sound behind him and his attacker: the muffled shift of clothes. Another person was there, too. Breaking the silence, the newcomer made an annoyed, guttural sound in the back of their throat.

“Dean, cut it out! You're going to hurt him!” a vaguely familiar voice interjected.

The arm only clinched around Mike's head in response. A fist came up to nuzzle abrasively into his already unruly blond hair, before he was abruptly released with a final, teasing pat on the seat of his pajama sweatpants.

Mike turned around, eyes huge with wonder, and gaped at the intruders. One grinned wildly while the other offered an apologetic smile. Both matched cameos from almost twenty years ago, posed in ancient picture-frames on his mantle, with everyone else long gone.

The first man looked older than Mike remembered, not only because it was literally true, but because of the hollow cheeks in his otherwise handsome face, unshaven and uncared for. Although his green eyes had a haunted quality to them, as well, they were practically identical to that of the surly teenager who'd been left on his grandmother's doorstep, shaggy-haired ten year old in tow, once upon a time.

At first glance, the second man, towering over Mike and his partner, didn't seem very different at all, since Mike had seen him more recently – or as recent as a decade could be – but there was just something _off_ about him. His brown hair hung in a bedraggled curtain around gaunt, bruised eyes of a darker verdant shade, and his once genuine, boyish smile was forced now.

“Dean?” Mike finally found the composure to inquire. “Sam?”

“In the flesh,” Dean replied, his smirk not waning in the slightest. He kicked Mike's forgotten lamp with the toe of one boot and tutted disparagingly. “Dude, Luke Skywalker? If you're gonna come at me with geek paraphernalia, try to pick something a bit more badass, like Han Solo. He got the girl, after all.”

“Dean,” Sam broke in, his arms crossed over a muscle shirt that peeked out from under his beat up jacket, “Luke is a prophesied Jedi warrior and a skilled pilot. That, in itself, makes him more formidable than Han, and the only reason his relationship with Leia didn't progress is obviously because she's his _sister_.”

Dean snorted in protest, but Mike interrupted before he could speak. “Not that I mind this scintillating discussion about _Star Wars_ or anything–” God knew everyone at work slammed him down with extreme prejudice whenever he made a reference, “–but _what_ are you guys doing here? I haven't seen you since...”

“Stanford,” Sam finished for him. He frowned, as if even the mockery of the smile he had was impossible to preserve. “Not since I left for school.”

Mike nodded mutely, the memory of an angry, helpless Sam fresh in his mind, waiting at their door with all of his bags. He could probably recount Sam and his grandmother's conversation – about Sam running away after a fight with his father – word for word, despite it being a lifetime ago.

“I don't even know when,” Dean added. He waved his hand breezily.

Mike stared at him for a moment, his bottom lip caught between his teeth, then tiredly exhaled. “Twelve years, two months, two weeks and fifteen days. _That's_ how long it's been.”

When the number had been considerably less than that, merely two years between visits, Mike had been heartbroken. His brash, brave eldest cousin had been his hero since they first met and he couldn't wrap his thirteen year old head around why Dean stayed away. After Stanford, though, he got a gist. Even if Dean had initially been nothing more than too busy, there was no way he could forgive the Rosses for helping Sam abandon him and Uncle John – no way he didn't blame them for it, at least partially, even though Sam never came to see _them_ , either. He'd left while Mike was at school, not even giving him the chance to say goodbye.

As if sensing his thoughts, an uncanny skill he'd always had, Dean's ever-present smirk tightened around his lips. “Oh yeah, I forgot about that freaky memory thing of yours,” was all he said.

Mike forced a chuckle, unsure how to respond to that. Thankfully, Sam spared him the effort to explain, “We're, uh, here on business, I guess you could say.”

“Okay,” Mike said. He knew better than to ask what the business was, after twenty years. Neither Uncle John nor Grammy had done anything but dodge the subject, except to say that it was how the two halves of Mike's family had found each other again. Prior to her death, his mom had never mentioned a single thing about having cousins or nephews.

For a moment, the brothers shared a look that he didn't miss, but couldn't exactly read, before Sam quietly continued, “And we heard about your grandmother, Mike. About her...sickness.”

“We're sorry, man,” Dean said, eyes shiny and authentically contrite, which was a new look on him. His fingers twitched at his side, like he wanted to reach out, perhaps ruffle his cousin's hair again, but Mike was grateful for his resistance.

He might not have been, if he was younger. Heck, only a few years ago, he would have been desperate, even clingy, for a kind touch, a rarity in his current life, but he had to wonder... His grandmother had been resigned to a nursing home for _years_ already, since Mike could hardly be considered an adult, so why were they dropping by now? His logic, which sounded suspiciously like Harvey, intoned that they had to want something from him. Surely they would have dropped by earlier, had they truly cared.

But then, the Winchesters had never been a normal family by _any_ standards and who else gave a damn about Mike? Trevor and Jenny were out of his life, Grammy was confined to a bed for however long she had left, and Harvey expostulated just how much Mike didn't matter to him at every possible opportunity, although he did occasionally act in a contradictory manner.

“So...” Mike abruptly changed the subject, tone far more upbeat than he felt, partly to put his cousins, who were watching him with narrowed eyes, at ease, “What have you two been up to? Did you blow the rest of the Stanford fish out of the water, Sam? You know, a little whale versus shark action in the warm waters of the Pacific?”

Sam laughed and ran a hand through his unkempt hair. It seemed less fake, though Mike didn't think he knew him well enough to pinpoint that anymore, especially upon hearing his answer: “I couldn't finish, actually.”

“Why?” Mike gasped, his eyes growing round. He remembered how passionate Sam used to be about becoming a lawyer – in fact, he had inspired Mike in the first place – and he knew that it couldn't be because his cousin wasn't bright enough. Sam was one of the smartest people Mike had ever met.

Mulling over his reply, Sam's eyes pitched this way and that and cased his cousin's apartment. Mike wondered what he thought of everything he saw: the leak in the corner, the unidentifiable stains on the carpet, the old box of pizza that Mike had left out on his three-legged coffee table, rather than dumping it as soon as he was done. He was only glad that the faint smell of weed had finally dissipated, thanks to months of sobriety, because he'd started on it _after_ they became estranged and shame roiled in his gut at the idea of them finding out. He was ashamed of too many things.

“Dad died,” Sam eventually murmured, a careful, considerate pause between each word. Both Mike and Dean cut him sharp looks and to the latter he said, “What? He has a right to know, doesn't he? Mike's family, too, Dean.”

“I know that!” Dean snapped, but Mike wasn't really listening. Without looking behind him, he backpedaled, then stopped when the cushions of his couch collided with his legs and prompted him to plop down onto the sagging piece of furniture. His head fell into his hands.

“What happened?” he asked, voice thick. He didn't know why the news shook him up so much. John Winchester had never been the best uncle – if he were being completely honest, John wasn't the best _father_ , either.

Except, upon Mike's parents passing away, when he wasn't off on one of his mysterious jobs, John had done his best to be there for his nephew. Most of what he'd attempted to teach Mike – sports, some games and mechanical handiwork – hadn't been Mike's forte, anyway, but it was the thought that mattered, more so than the result.

“It was a car crash,” Sam said. There was a slight hesitance prior to the last two words that Mike paid little mind to. _Car crash_. Of course it was. What else would it be? “But,” his cousin went on, brushing back his hair again, “it happened a long time ago, Mike. Almost six years. We're okay.”

“Oh,” Mike whispered. He wondered if that was honestly meant to comfort him. Six whole years. His uncle had died and they hadn't so much as invited him to the funeral, hadn't given him a single call. He swallowed down the bitter taste in his mouth and said, “I'm sorry for your loss, I guess. I know how it feels to lose both of your parents and...yeah, I'm just sorry.”

Dean regarded him for a minute, before he moved to take the seat across from him, his brother following his cue. “We're okay,” he said, a repeat of Sam's affirmation. “Are _you_ , though? You're not lookin' too hot, buddy.”

“Kinda tired,” Mike mumbled. He rubbed a palm into his uncomfortably prickling eyes, his cousins silent. They allowed him to gather his bearings, and when he finally met their gazes again, he decided it was time to lighten the mood. “I'm doing okay, too. A few months ago, I was a total fuck up, but I have a decent job now, at a great law firm in the city: Pearson Hardman.”

He bit down harder into his lip and almost felt guilty for disclosing this. Would it seem like he was rubbing it in Sam's face? Would they find it impossible that he, the awkward little kid they remembered, could achieve something like that? Would they figure out his lie?

Instead, the tense curl of Sam's mouth broke into a radiant beam. “Congratulations, Mike! That's awesome!” he exclaimed, as Dean reached out a fist to bump against Mike's, donning a similarly proud expression.

Mike smiled shyly at them, his confidence boosting, and said, “It can be hard, but I really like it there. I have a lot of cool coworkers – and some that suck, I'm not gonna lie – and my boss is, um.” He paused and thought of Harvey's intense brown eyes, his patronizing bravado, of the man who existed beneath those five thousand dollar suits, geeky and reluctantly caring. “Harvey stood out on a limb for me. I can't even begin to tell you how he saved my life, but he did.”

He'd been drowning and Harvey was his lifeboat, doing what no one – Trevor, the Winchesters, or Grammy – had previously managed. Heck, most hadn't even _tried_. If it wasn't for Harvey, he'd be in prison right now, and though he didn't want to tell Sam and Dean that, though he didn't want to guilt them for something they never should have been obligated to do, they seemed to sense it, anyway.

“Sounds like a swell guy,” Dean said, adding, “He hot?” and grinning when his brother and cousin simultaneously groaned. “What? You're not still dating that Trevor dweeb, are ya?”

Mike glared, his ears warm, but most of his affront was exhaled out with his reply. “I've never dated Trevor and won't date Harvey. Trevor moved away and, even if he hadn't, he'd still only be my friend.” He might have said _best_ friend a short time ago, yet now he was simply grateful that the pain had begun to recede. His eyes no longer stung at the mere mention of Trevor's name. “And Harvey... Well, I'd _never_ ruin anything with him, okay?”

Dean looked like he wasn't quite ready to drop it, fed by the fuel of Mike's defensiveness, but Sam frowned at him in reprimand, then said, “Uh huh, and you won't. You're amazing, Mike. He's lucky to have you, too.”

“Um, thanks,” Mike stammered. He ruffled the back of his head sheepishly, his blush darker. He wasn't sure whether that was true, but elected against mentioning as much and simply smiled wider. “You should meet him! How long are you guys sticking around? Maybe you can shadow me at work tomorrow? He'll pretend to mind, but actually won't,” he exclaimed, unable to suppress a bounce in his place.

His cousins shared another look. It might have started to grate on his nerves, had he not recollected how often they used to do it. Now, it just told him that the answer would be 'no' without them having to explicate. “We'll be tied up with our own work for most of the day, unfortunately,” Sam said.

“I understand,” Mike answered at once. He dredged up a blithe smile that wasn't entirely convincing.

Dean quirked an eyebrow between him and Sam, scrutinizing them. “We _could_ still meet for lunch,” he offered. The crook of his lips suggested it wouldn't be the bother Mike feared. “Right now, though,” he tacked on, as he stood and stretched till a pop resounded, “you two kiddies should get your asses to bed. It's two a.m., ya know?”

“I do. _You_ woke me up this early,” Mike reminded him. He shook his head in exasperation, which he noted Sam copying out of the corner of his eye, then chuffed a quiet laugh when Dean shrugged, utterly unrepentant. “Dude, I'm starting to remember how much of a control freak you always were.”

Sam's boom of laughter joined in on the jest, a roar in the otherwise silent room, while Dean scowled. If Mike blocked himself off to everything but their noisy bickering, he could almost pretend that the last dozen or so years had never even happened. He relished in the easy turn their reunion had taken.

-

 _Another woman found dead in her apartment..._

Mike graced the world with his conscious presence, yet again, four hours later. It was not nearly enough rest, further dimmed by the horrible news his radio alarm chose to blare so early, but everything else was currently right in his world – work, friends, family – and he gave them more stock than sleep deprivation.

He cleaned up, got dressed, then discovered that Dean was still sprawled across his sofa, his mouth open in a raucous snore, one arm hung off the edge of the futon that rolled out of Mike's sofa cushions. Sam was nowhere to be found.

Mike smiled fondly at the sight and managed to wrangle his skinny tie into a suitable knot – well, by his own standards, at least. He'd scrounge up breakfast for them, he decided affably.

A push of his kitchen door revealed his other cousin's whereabouts. Sam sat, back to Mike and the exit, at the rickety dining table, his long fingers dancing along the keyboard of his laptop. He gave no indication to acknowledge that he'd heard Mike, so the younger man drew up behind him and frowned at his monitor, which displayed two open tabs.

 _New York Ripper Strikes Again_ , the header of the first read, big and bold, property of a New York Times article, though the text following it was too small to read. Beside it, a Wikipedia page that read [_Al (folklore)_](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Al_%28folklore%29) was on standby. Mike must have made some sound while scanning over the screen because Sam's head snapped up and his large hand slammed the lid of the laptop shut.

“What are you doing awake, Mike?” he asked, his tone exaggeratedly casual.

Mike blinked at him, wary of his evident paranoia, but dutifully replied, “Work, remember? I've gotta go in a few. Why are you up?”

“I don't sleep,” Sam said. He played off the absurdity of his words with a shrug.

Mike considered him carefully, then inquired, “Nightmares?”

Sam didn't respond, merely smiling ruefully, but Mike let him be. He knew a thing or two about bad dreams himself. Instead, he started for the fridge and scavenged through it for fresh ingredients, wishing he'd been to the supermarket sometime in the last century.

“What are you doing?” Sam asked again, his head cocked at an angle.

“I thought I'd whip something up for you guys,” Mike said over his shoulder. He hummed in triumph when he found a batch of unexpired eggs and only partially wilted vegetables, perfect for an omelet.

“You really don't have to do that,” Sam asserted. He shook his hands in a quick, halting motion.

“Are you kidding me?” His brother appeared suddenly at the doorway and began to leer at Mike. “I haven't had a home-cooked meal since Reagan was President. Or something like that.”

“It's just a couple of fried eggs. No trouble at all,” Mike said. He punctuated by cracking one’s shell against the rim of his chipped frying pan. Sam faltered beneath the dual assault and relented with a sigh, to which Dean whooped delightedly. Mike chuckled at their familiar fussing, while dicing green pepper and tomato slices into yolk. It took less than half an hour for the whites of the eggs to color a hearty gold, and it was only after Mike placed plates in front of his guests that he broached an issue that niggled at him. “I feel kinda bad...”

“Why?” Sam replied, the question urgent but not apprehensive. Dean craned his head up, too, unable to speak through his mouthful.

“Well, it's just that you haven't been here in a while and when you finally visit, there's a psychotic killer on the loose.” As soon as he divulged his reasoning, Mike regretted it. Sam's open expression closed off, his eyes cagey in their sockets, and Dean's smile became needlessly nonchalant. “I-I mean,” Mike rambled, attempting to break the tension, “I saw that you were looking up the Ripper. It's terrible what he's doing, murdering pregnant women, especially if it's for the reason the media is giving.”

Dean finally swallowed, his lips still grooved into that insouciant smirk. “And what are they saying, Mikey?”

“That it's a hate crime,” Mike answered quietly, busying himself with washing finished dishes. “That the Ripper, whoever he is, is killing these women because they're Middle Eastern, and no one should do that. America – especially New York – is supposed to be a place where _everyone_ belongs, no matter their race, religion or culture. It’s not right.”

He scrubbed his dishtowel across the surface of one plate angrily and startled when Sam murmured, “You're right,” with a tiny, affectionate quirk of his mouth. “Thanks for breakfast, Mikey. It was great.”

“N-no problem,” Mike answered, a little flustered by the gratitude. He set his now gleaming dishes aside and chanced a glance at his wall clock, then bit his lip at the sight. “Crap, I'm going to be late! You two will be okay on your own, right?”

“Fine,” Sam said, simultaneous to Dean's declaration of, “Dude, chill. You're not still riding that ancient bike, are ya? I'll drive you.”

“Uh, that's okay,” Mike willed himself to respond, albeit unconvincingly. He had to admit, it would be nice to sit back and relax for once, particularly since he'd probably be late, anyhow, no matter how fast he pedaled, but his cousins had other things to attend to and he couldn't delay them just because he didn't want Harvey to yell at him again. How pathetic would that be? “Don't you have business?”

“It can wait a little while,” Dean answered dismissively, already standing up. “I couldn't deprive anyone of a ride in my pretty baby, now could I? 'Specially not my favorite kid cousin.”

Sam rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Here he goes again,” he told Mike, who laughed and accepted Dean's proposition.

He was glad he did once he caught sight of Dean's car. Sleek and black as a prowling panther, the Impala didn't look a minute older than the last time he'd seen her, when his eldest cousin had dropped him off at school before leaving for another trip. Mike walked up to the car now and ran his hands over her body, reverential as a priest with something holy. Dean grinned proudly from the driver side door.

“Still beautiful, ain't she?” There was no question in his tone, phrasing aside.

“Yeah,” Mike breathed, as he heeded Sam's none-too-subtle suggestion to get inside, where he watched Sam stake his claim to the shotgun seat.

“You two,” the tall man muttered dryly, not nearly as irritated as he wanted to act, if the way his eyes crinkled at the corners was anything to go by. Neither Mike nor Dean answered him, sharing a conspiring look in the rear-view, so Sam appended, “Better hurry up, Dean. Don't want Mike to be a tardy slack off like you, do we?”

Dean made a face at the joke, but subsequently grinned broad as the Cheshire Cat. “Hold on to your hats, boys and girls! It's been a while since Dean Winchester hit big city traffic!” He swiftly maneuvered out of his parking spot and stepped down, unnecessarily sharp, into the Impala's gas pedal. His brother and cousin slammed back into their cushions rather comically.

The Impala proceeded to swerve between lanes, skyscrapers and fellow cars first shooting past, then falling behind it. Mike made it to work in record time. Pearson Hardman's glass body shone like a beacon for him to direct Dean to.

His older cousin found an empty spot in front of the firm’s sidewalk and paused there, waiting just long enough for Mike to get out on jellied legs, without even bothering to shut the engine off. “Have a good day, honey,” he said saucily, accompanied by a quick wave from Sam, before they blasted back into the busy streets.

For a minute, Mike stared after them, while nerves roiled in his stomach. He sorely hoped there wouldn’t be news of another accident – caused by Dean or otherwise – anytime soon, but berated himself for the black thoughts and was soon distracted by a security guard trying to catch his attention from inside the building.

“Hey, Hank,” he greeted the man, whose goofy smile only grew larger.

“You shall not pass!” the security guard shouted, the severity of the original _Lord of the Rings_ quote trivialized by his mirth.

“B-but,” Mike put on a stutter, playing along, “how am I gonna live happily ever after, till the end of my days, _now_?”

Hank appraised him momentarily, then broke off in a laugh. “You’re all right, kid,” he said, a beefy hand thumped against Mike's shoulder.

“So you tell me every day,” Mike returned, witty as ever. “It never gets old, though. Thanks for the ego boost, man.”

Hank shook his head. “Move along, ya brat. Some of us have got real work to do.”

Mike faked a pout and handed Hank his bag, only cracking a smile after it was deemed safe enough to return to him, at which point he turned for the elevators. “See ya, Hank!”

When he reached his office floor, the click of heels and Rachel Zane’s elegantly lifted eyebrow met him. “You’re early,” she said, by way of hello.

Mike ignored the disdainful observation and chirped, “Morning, Rachel,” batting his eyelashes at her coquettishly. He chuckled when she rolled her eyes, familiar with her barely contained aggravation by now.

“It’s weird, though,” she continued, pivoting on a pencil heel. She seemed to intrinsically believe that Mike would trail her like a lost puppy. He almost didn’t, just to prove her wrong, but he wanted to know what she was talking about, so he settled for cursing his own predictability. “Normally, Harvey only acts like he’s PMSing when you’ve done something to screw up, but it’s too early for that, today. As I said, you’re even on time.”

Mike worried his lip. “Harvey’s mad?” he asked meekly. He wracked his brain for possible reasons. His boss hadn’t been upset yesterday, he remembered. In fact, Harvey had been reluctantly content with Mike’s progress, since he'd proofed a document and found a discrepancy that had previously been missed, which could have cost the firm millions of dollars.

“Yeah, he was glaring out the window when I went to visit Donna a few minutes ago, looking ready to use that thousand dollar silk tie as a makeshift noose.” Rachel didn’t seem to notice his anxiety. Her inflection bordered only on curious, as if Harvey’s choler was yet another matter for her to research.

“Thanks for letting me know,” Mike replied, although she hadn’t for any specific purpose. Rachel shrugged and stepped aside so he could stalk past his cubicle, normally his first stop of the day, for Harvey’s office.

“Oh,” Donna said, upon his reaching her desk. She stretched the word like small children did every time a classmate was called to the principal's office, and even deigned to look up at him. That was when Mike knew it was bad.

“I’m not coming out alive, am I?” he asked, humor feeble at best.

“Mike!” Harvey’s voice echoed, his displeasure obvious. The exclamation interrupted Donna’s answer.

She smirked up at Mike and made a shooing gesture, directing him to his doom. “Good luck, puppy,” she said, surprisingly genuine, as Mike swallowed and obeyed.

“Harvey, whatever is going on–” he began, but his boss cut him off with an impatient flick of his wrist and stood up.

“You didn’t ride your bike today, did you?” Harvey demanded, without a care for the strange turn his interrogation had taken.

“Um, no,” Mike said. “Why does it matter?” was on the tip of his tongue, but he gulped it back. Better to not know the relevance if it meant Harvey didn't get mad – well, madder.

Harvey whipped on the sole of one expensive shoe toward the glass that circled his large room, before he abruptly changed the subject. “I have a meeting with a client. Grab the files on my desk; you’re coming with me.”

“Okay,” Mike said, each syllable stretched bemusedly. Again, he forwent an inquiry into Harvey’s logic, since the man could have easily carried everything himself, and simply did as commanded. He fell into step with Harvey when his boss headed for the door. Donna saw his questioning glance and shrugged, but the curl of her glossed lips suggested that she knew something he didn’t – like _always_ – and he inwardly bemoaned his unending misfortune.

Thankfully, by the time Harvey got outside and found Ray already waiting for them, the stiff line of his shoulders had relaxed, his ambiance, while explaining their case, becoming almost friendly. “Gale Tempest, born Rupert Abranksy, was one of my first clients for Pearson Hardman.” He rolled his eyes at the presumptuous alias the man in question had chosen and Mike smiled. It meant storm-storm, oddly enough. “Ten years ago, he was a no name street painter in Harlem, barely supporting his wife and five year old son, but around the time I left the District Attorney's office for the firm, he suddenly hit it big, and now he’s one of the richest men in the United States, never mind the city.”

“I read an exposé on his artwork once,” Mike said. He recalled that he’d found the tidbit about Tempest's name hilarious then, too. “Some creepy stuff, with blood-spray and monsters bursting out of otherwise black canvases. The reviewer dubbed it ‘a glimpse into the dark recesses of the human subconscious’. I thought it made _Saw_ look like a romantic comedy.”

“No accounting for taste,” Harvey said with half a shrug. “I prefer jaunty works, myself, but that isn’t really the point.”

“So why’d he call us?” Mike asked. He took a cursory flip through the files on his lap, but found no answer there.

“He didn’t,” Harvey replied, collecting the topmost file from him and opening it up. “As you know from the _McKernon Motors_ case, we take a personal interest in our clients' success and swoop in if we think they’re about to make a regrettable decision.” He pointed to a particular page, its title announcing it to be Tempest’s will, his finely manicured nail opalescent on the creamy white, expensive stationary. “I didn’t often have need to worry about Mr. Tempest, as he’s Spartan to the point of being gluttonous, which he displayed when he left his ex-wife penniless.”

Mike’s eyes scanned over the information and absorbed more in a few seconds than others might in ten minutes. “But you’re worried now,” he murmured, “because this says he’s liquidating the whole of his assets among his ex-wife, son and various charity organizations upon his death, rather than having his business prolong sales.”

“Tempest isn’t the sort of man to do that, no,” Harvey acquiesced. His forehead wrinkled in a way that made Mike want to smooth it out, using his own hands if necessary. “We’re going to his townhouse now to try and discern his motives.”

“Almost there, sir,” Ray piped in. The dulcet utterances of Frank Sinatra filtered, volume low, over the half-raised glass that separated the three men, soothing the disquiet.

“Thank you, Ray,” Harvey said, his smile open. The driver's prediction proved correct within the next several minutes, whereupon he stopped the limo and held its door open for them, taking special care to ensure Mike didn’t drop his armload.

Mike followed his boss’s example and sang Ray's praises, before gawping up at their client’s townhouse, which resembled a mansion, or even a castle, more accurately than any given description, with tall spires, narrow columns and a bombastic paint job of cerulean blue.

Harvey, however, didn’t bat an eye at it, his expression soured by distaste. He loped to the entrance and rapped the lion-head knocker against the door twice, sharp and purposeful, then stood back to wait. His patience was soon rewarded by the scurrying of footsteps that belonged to a mousy-looking young woman, her eyes a liquid brown to Harvey’s soul-searing chocolate and her hair a mess of tight brown ringlets.

Harvey’s demeanor shifted a hundred and eighty degrees and a flirty smile adorned his lips. “Wendy, my dear, you’re looking lovely as ever,” he said, blind to how Mike's good mood dived several notches.

Wendy blinked at him, her eyes dark and inscrutable, then replied with an smooth, “ _Enchanté_ ,” that seemed to throw even Harvey for a loop. At the dumbfounded expression, she sneered and withdrew. Both the door and the elder lawyer's jaw remained unhinged.

“She isn’t usually so…forward,” Harvey eventually explained, when he noticed Mike's surprise over his boss getting daunted by a woman – well, a woman not Donna or Jessica. “In all the years she’s been Tempest’s secretary, about as long as he’s had me on retainer, Wendy has always turned cherry red the second I so much as _looked_ at her.”

“Maybe she took a self-help class?” Mike suggested, but Harvey ignored his commentary to forge onward. He swiftly scaled the staircase, as the woman in question had done a few moments prior.

A shadow fell over Harvey, its proprietor standing at the base of the second floor. “Harvey Specter,” he mumbled, wringing his hands apprehensively. He pulled one out of its clasp at Harvey's extension of the same. “W-what are you doing here?”

“This is my associate, Mike Ross,” Harvey said, suavely dodging the inquiry.

Mike took the rest of the steps that separated them two at a time and shook Tempest's hand, feeling a clammy sheen of sweat on it. Now that he was close enough, he could see that the man seemed sick, heavy bags under his eyes, a greenish pallor to his perspiring skin. His pale gray orbs continually drifted to where his assistant now sat, manning a tasteful antique desk.

“It's nice to meet you, Mr. Tempest,” Mike said, soft as one might speak to a cornered, wounded animal. He extricated his hand and subtly wiped it across his pants, though he knew his boss wouldn't approve.

Tempest's attention snapped to him, albeit briefly, and he nodded. “You too, Mr. Ross.”

“Gale!” Harvey chose that moment to set aside niceties. “I've noticed a few new...additions to your will.”

“Ah yes, _those_ ,” Tempest replied, the final word a despondent sigh.

“You didn't contact me for my advice, Gale. That's what retainers are for,” Harvey said, his arms crossed in a way Mike was familiar with, able to make even the oldest man feel helpless, small and stupid.

Tempest glanced at Wendy again, but she had immersed herself in a gossip magazine, ignorant to her surroundings, so he mustered up a weak, “I didn't want to bother you, Harvey. I thought the online will-building website would be enough and I'm sorry if they messed anything up.”

“They didn't,” Harvey answered, still maintaining his no nonsense pose, despite the slight mitigation of intimidation in his lecture. “The diction is fine, but the problem I have is with its results. Although we take no issue with you reconciling with Martha, that being a personal matter, if you disperse your finances the way you're planning, you'll leave no meaningful business legacy.”

Tempest listened to the advice, stare locked dead on his own dress shoes, then smiled. It was a garish expression, bitter and galled. “That's what this is about, isn't it?” he asked. “Money, always _money_! Why does every man think that flimsy little sheets of colored paper, which can't so much as wipe your ass, are the answer to everything? Why can't I do something good with my wicked life the once, without the Spanish Inquisition turning up at my doorstep?”

Harvey and Mike convened wordlessly over the small, ranting man's head, and registered the same shock in one another. “Gale? Are you feeling all right?” Harvey inquired, more gentle now. It seemed he'd pressed too hard, hurt too much.

“No,” Tempest whispered, “but you can't help me this time, Harvey, so please leave. Thank you for all you've done for me.” He turned in the direction he'd come, toward a dimly lit office with its doors flung open, and blocked himself off from his lawyers' view by closing them behind him. Only Wendy and her special brand of hospitality remained.

Mike couldn't help feeling like his bones thrummed from the aftershock of that slam, but he regained his calm and trained his eyes on Wendy, as his boss did, till she asked at length, “You don't need me to walk you out, do you? Better yet, I could hold your hand?” indignation obvious in her tone, in a way completely unlike Donna's comical terrorizing of her fellow employees.

“No,” Harvey said, although he took a contradictory step closer to her desk. “If I may, however, I'd like to have a word with you?” She harrumphed, but nodded, not bothering to look away from whatever article she was reading. Harvey smiled, rose-sweet and barbed. “You haven't told Mr. Tempest any unfortunate news, have you, Wendy? Or do you know any other reason for me to be worried about him?”

Wendy must have sensed the underlying intention of his interrogation, because she set her magazine down onto her otherwise neat desk and smirked up at him. “Look, Mr. Specter, Gale is a big boy. You're not his father and I'm certainly not his mommy. If he has an ouchie, you have to _let_ him come to you, so why don't you go feed the rest of your baby birds while you wait? I can't babysit all of you.”

Harvey's lips thinned in response. It didn't quite managing to twist his face unattractively, but he took her advice and hurried down the steps, his clenched fists the only overt signal of his anger. Unsure whether to give his boss or the secretary a wider berth, Mike followed at a slower pace, the hairs on the nape of his neck rising. At the foot of the stairs, he braved a glimpse around his shoulder and found that, in the shadows, Wendy's already sable eyes had pitched almost black, which forced his hand.

He power-walked out of Tempest's house without a care over how idiotic he appeared. The rapid thread of his heart quieted once he comprehended that Harvey was waiting outside for him. He gifted his boss a watery smile and said, “You think she's blackmailing him, don't you?”

“You noticed that?” Harvey replied, the subtle tilt of his mouth relating that he was actually impressed – so impressed, in fact, that he allowed his associate to catch up to him and nodded his head for Mike to enter his lingering limo first.

“I've been getting better at reading people,” Mike said, preening. He'd hoped his gloating skills were finally beyond disparagement, but Harvey’s responding chuckle was indulgent, at best. Still, Mike wanted nothing more than to keep his boss in that jovial state. “I noticed that Mr. Tempest kept looking to her for cues,” he hurriedly added.

The dimple in Harvey’s face yielded deeper, tinged with sincere pride, before it quelled in the release of a breath. “Well, we can't do anything about it now, I suppose. We'll have to get back to the office and try later, when he's no longer so...emotional.”

“'Cause the great Harvey Specter is put off by a few manly tears,” Mike said. Laughter pervaded the confined space of the car at Harvey's reprimanding look.

-

  


By the time they returned to Pearson Hardman, all the confusion over Gale Tempest's behavior had been put to bed. Instead, Harvey and his associate were embroiled in a heated debate over whether the new Captain Kirk was a match for the old, but Mike knew he would be heading right back to the doghouse as soon as he saw the grimace Hank had for him.

  


“What’s wrong?” Mike asked with a frown. The security guard declined an answer in favor of pointing upstairs, which did nothing to dispel Mike's worry in the slightest. Harvey was now glowering at him, too. The look wordlessly managed to convey that he disliked his associate’s penchant for finding trouble worthy of a swift rescue.

“Come along,” the older man directed him, calling Mike into the elevators with a wriggled finger, which he grudgingly submitted to, his shoulders already slumped in preparation. He barely listened to the ping of floors being ascended and dragged his feet to Harvey's office, then froze when an arm was thrown around him. It pulled him into a warm half-hug that lasted until Harvey cleared his throat, at which point his assailant released him.

“Dean,” Mike said, as he eyeballed the black suit his cousin currently wore, which looked like it belonged on the discount rack of a prom and funeral store, its sleeves slightly too short and the jacket too big. Behind him, attired in the same outfit in a larger size and precariously _not_ leaning against Donna’s desk, was Sam, who smiled at Mike nervously.

“Mikey,” Dean replied, shit-eating grin tailor-made for him, as opposed to his clothes. “I was just gettin’ to know Donna over here.” He spanned an arm out to point at the nameplate on her desk, a gift from Harvey that was inlaid in gold. “You never told me you had such pretty friends.”

Mike immediately paled several shades, his knuckles white around the files he still held. Sam seemed slightly more attuned to his borderline panic than Dean, but Donna merely laughed – practically _giggled_ , even, which served to scare Mike that much more.

“I must say, the tramp is rather charming,” she admitted, a fiery strand of hair curled around her finger, a click resounding every time her pointed nail-tips made contact, “but what’s more adorable is that the puppy’s puppy thinks it can pick _me_ up.” She shot Mike a scolding look, as if he was the one with the death wish, and he barely withheld a whimper.

Harvey had kept silent while they bantered, but when the tingling of his Mike-senses went haywire, he smiled tersely and crossed his arms. “Despite how enthralled I am with this rapport, may I inquire as to the identity of these gentlemen, Mike? More trouble of the Trevor variety, perhaps, or are you engaging in a _ménage-ἁ-trois_ now?”

“No!” Mike exclaimed. He blushed furiously and ignored Dean’s juvenile chuckle. Jokes about sex and bodily functions always did amuse his oldest cousin.

Sam decided to take mercy on him and clarified, “Uh, hi. I’m Sam Winchester and this is my brother, Dean–” He gave said brother a subduing look that easily read _Dean, behave_ , then ran a hand through his hair when Dean snubbed him in favor of waggling his eyebrows at Donna. “We’re Mike’s cousins,” he finished lamely, diverted by the vexing sight.

Hoping he wouldn’t be mad, that he might even be understanding, Mike roved optimistic eyes to his boss. They drooped in relief after he perceived that Harvey had slackened his shoulders, no longer in alpha dog mode.

“I should have guessed,” Harvey said, smirk firmly in place, his taunting, supercilious tone back with a vengeance. “Those cheap suits give away the resemblance, don’t they, Donna?”

“I’m booking a suite for the Ross family reunion as we speak,” she replied, blasé. It was almost worse than Harvey’s blunt jab. Almost.

“Haha,” Mike returned weakly, a contrast to how Dean puffed up, his handsome face a mask of righteous pique, a saint forced into the company of Illuminati.

“I’ll have you know, we spent a hundred bucks on these. Each,” he declared, plucking at a button on his wrist.

Harvey and Donna exchanged another look, no doubt derisively crooning over how cute they found the whole situation. “That’s nice,” Harvey drawled, upon breaking eye-contact.

“We’re going to lunch,” Mike said, selectively blind to his sarcasm. Although his cousins – well, to be fair, although _Dean_ – didn’t exactly fit into the mold of this environment, maybe even more so than Mike himself was an outcast, he was delighted that they’d remembered to visit. A part of him had honestly feared they would hit the road again, gone for another lifetime. “Do you wanna come with us, Harvey?”

His boss stilled, apparently thrown by the imploring inquiry, not quite shy of an outright request, but said, “I’d like to see you in my office, Mike.”

“U-um, okay,” Mike replied. He documented the way Harvey’s eyes found his secretary’s again, more meaningful this time, and how she clicked off the intercom that connected their desks as a result. It implied the need for subterfuge. Mike swallowed with some difficulty, saliva thick in his throat, then conjured up an assuring smile for his cousins, permitting it to melt off only after they were out of hearing range. “If I wasn’t supposed to have them here–”

Harvey shut the door behind them and interrupted, “I thought you had no family but your grandmother?” His voice dropped low and took on an accusatory edge. Mike gnawed on his lip to ponder the answer.

“I… Well, I guess I can’t say that they’re _not_ my family, because they are, but they haven’t always been.” His vague explanation earned him a incensed glare, similar to that of an owner of a pet that had just piddled on the carpet, so he gave Harvey the abridged account of all that had happened: first meeting the Winchesters when his parents died, not seeing them post Sam’s departure for Stanford, how they'd manhandled their way back into his life without warning. Instead of being appreciative or even apathetic to the revelations, his boss seemed to get more and more agitated, his quick swivel toward the outer windows hinting at an urge to pace his quarters. “Are you mad?” Mike asked, already resigned to a yes.

Harvey stopped fretting and scanned his eyes over his associate, painstakingly slow. “Mike, why are they here _now_? Do they want something from you? Money? A kidney?”

“Oh,” Mike said, taken by surprise. He might have felt offended by the roundabout insinuations, had he not accepted by now that this was Harvey acting concerned – his way of _caring_. A hot burst of affection gushed through him, accentuated by an exuberant smile that worked to weaken the older man's resolve. “You don’t have to worry about me, Harvey. I’ll be okay, I promise. I won't mess up anymore.”

Harvey's lips pressed together, his familiar, grim way of forming Mike's name during a rebuke, but Mike didn’t really want to hear what he had to say: that the only thing he cared about was not having to hold more interviews, that his associate was a naïve moron, any variation of the words Mike sorely didn’t want to believe. “You’ll come to lunch with us, won’t you?” he persisted, purposefully obtuse.

“I have too much to do,” Harvey replied. His rejection was expressed kindly, without the affection of outright contemptuousness. “You enjoy your day with Impala man and the giant. At least I’m confident in their taste for cars, if nothing else. Late sixties, early seventies, I’m guessing? Good era for the Chevy.”

“I-Impala man, Harvey? Really?” Mike asked, baffled, until he remembered that his cousins had dropped him off that morning. Harvey must have seen out his window. After all, Harvey was the king of reading people, but you couldn’t do that if you weren’t constantly aware of your surroundings. Harvey would make a great ninja, if lawyering somehow didn’t work out. “How do you know 'the giant', as you put it, isn't the driver?”

A snort resounded, as if the idea was absolutely ridiculous. “Chewbacca never pilots.” Although Harvey would never stoop to it, the reply was reminiscent of _duh_. He chased Mike out with, “You have thirty minutes. I need that Spellman brief on my desk the second you get back,” before he could think up an adequately clever quip, transforming from a fellow nerd to Mike's demanding superior in a blurring instant.

“Thirty minutes?” Dean, who had only heard the tail end of the conversation, cried.

Mike jogged forward and took him by the arm to prevent him from any further argument. “Have you met Rachel, Dean? You'd like Rachel,” he said, in an obvious attempt to distract his cousin, which luckily prevailed.

“Rachel,” Dean repeated, spritzing up, “sounds like a hot chick name.”

“The hottest,” Mike intoned solemnly. He sent a mental apology to his friend, whom he knew would vehemently protest being objectified, but it was for a good cause. With a last smile goodbye to Donna and his boss, he nodded to Sam, glad that his cousin got the clue and shoved away from his corner, his massive shadow casting over them.

Mike half-hoped that Rachel was off running errands for another associate or partner, so he wouldn’t end up suffering her wrath so disturbingly close to Donna’s, a tropical storm after a hurricane. When they turned around a corner, though, there she was, a devil in Prada. She surveyed the triad of men with barely concealed antipathy, plush lips twisted.

“Who’re your friends, Mike?” she inquired.

Before Mike could explicate, Dean jumped in, “You must be Rachel. Mikey’s told me all about you, sweetheart.”

“Really now?” she said, a neatly plucked eyebrow arched in her friend’s direction. She smiled curtly when Mike failed to look anything but sheepish, unable to meet her gaze.

“Oh yeah,” Dean continued, debonair as ever. “Most beautiful girl in the office, he told me. Didn’t say that you’d take my breath away, though, Miss Rachel.”

As he spoke, her dark eyes continued to build like a storm, ash in an imminently erupting volcano, but it was with a clipped tone that she said, “It’s so sad when something so good looking is so stupid. Mike, remove your frat buddies from the office before I remove something vital of theirs.” The audible clatter of her stilettos echoed through the hall before anyone could muster up a reply.

“I hate that I’m always blacklisted with you,” Sam grumbled, after a minute of staring at the previously occupied, now empty, space that Rachel had left behind.

Dean pouted and gave off the aura of someone betrayed. “There’s something wrong with your office, man. Everyone’s hot, but _evil_. Only the awkward, curly-haired blond kid gave me the awe that I obviously deserve.”

“Not exactly,” Mike muttered. He chuckled feebly and thought of Louis. Thank God the junior partner and his lapdog associates – aside from Harold, apparently, but he was a nice guy, for all his gracelessness – weren’t around or this uncomfortable situation might have spiraled worse, if at all possible. Rather than dwell on it, Mike said, “I’m really glad you guys came. Did you wear the suits for the office?”

The brothers traded a quick glance and Sam smiled. “Yeah, sure. We knew they probably wouldn’t approve of our dress-code, so we scrounged these up. They got us through the door, at least.”

Mike beamed again, elated that they’d put forth the effort for him. In the office, he’d been so concerned over Harvey’s approval that he hadn’t gotten a good look, but Dean had always been a heart-breaker and Sam had grown into his gangly frame as well. Both of them could easily pass for male models even in the cheapest of materials. If they’d been anywhere but Pearson Hardman, Mike would never have gotten such grief over their appearance and he had to acknowledge, somewhat resentfully, that they’d look the part of hotshot lawyer better than him with a modicum of fashion help from someone like René. At any rate, the tailor wouldn’t cringe at the very sight of them, as he'd done when Harvey introduced Mike to him.

“So, where are we going?” Mike asked, brushing those thoughts away, ineffectual as the imaginary lint he continually feared would dust over him – for Harvey's sake more than his own.

Dean threw an arm across his cousin’s back, reaching up a bit higher to entrap Sam’s the same way, and said, “We found this awesome diner a few blocks from here. The pie’s supposed to be legendary.” He started forward and they jerked along like dogs on a leash with him, till he carelessly added, “It’s probably good boss-man ain’t joining us, Mikey. Posh guy like him wouldn’t dig anything that didn’t have _Chez_ in its name.”

“Dean,” Mike objected, bristling, “you don’t know Harvey like I do. He’s…he's a good guy. My lunch break is only fifteen minutes long, but he gave me _double_ that, so I could spend more time with you. You don’t know him.”

Dean appeared ready to retort, but Sam gave him a warning look and said, “You’re right, we don’t know too much. You could tell us, Mike. We _want_ to know.”

Mike attempted to summon a suitable reply, but settled for a whispered, “Thanks, Sammy,” and smiled down at his shoes, unanticipated affection coursing through him and confirming that he was right to trust them. They were family. “I, uh, think you know most everything, though,” he went on self-consciously. “I kinda blabbered on and on last night.”

“Indulge us,” Sam insisted, as the three of them entered an elevator together, unaware of how they drew the eyes of passersby.

Mike racked his brain for a scenario that would satisfy the Winchesters and fulfill the request, while not divulging his secret. He wasn’t quite ready to share that yet. However, he blanked, let his heart take the wheel, and gushed about Harvey till they touched down on the ground floor again. “And, do you know, they call him the best closer in the city? If you make it here, you can make it anywhere!”

“Jesus, kid, you have got it _so_ bad,” Dean said. He determinedly focused on his ribbing more than Hank the security guard’s vies for their attention, no doubt to enact yet another safety measure on the Winchesters, until the man gave up and waved them through. “Anything else I should know, aside from how my baby cousin wants to have hot monkey sex with that empty suit upstairs?”

Mike felt the telltale burn of a blush on his ears and was thankful for the cool New York breeze that soothed his inflamed face. He scowled when he felt Sam’s elbow rib into his side. “Sorry,” his cousin said, chastened. “I was aiming for Mr. Congeniality over there.”

“Oh, as if, out of the two of us, _I’m_ more like Sandra Bullock. Sure, Sammy, whatever helps you sleep at night,” Dean scoffed.

Before the jokes could become full on bickering, Mike pulled himself away from them and said, “There are a few more things you should know, now that you mention it.” He grinned when they both shut up to attend to him. “My coworkers will easily kick your ass if you try the _Casanova_ act in there again, Dean. And I’d really prefer if you didn’t call me Mikey. It diminishes my professional credibility.”

Dean worked his jaw for a minute, gaping amid the two younger men, but devolved into an exclaimed, “What is it with you snobby law-school types and nicknames? Can’t a man show his love without gettin’ bitched at for it?”

Mike’s smile stretched till his cheeks hurt and he purposefully directed his next question to Sam. “Where’d you say that diner was again?”

They chorused a snicker at Dean’s groan of dismay.

Exactly twenty five minutes later, Mike had a sense of deja-vu, watching from the backseat window as his eldest cousin sidled up to the curb facing Pearson Hardman again. He opened the Impala’s back door and stepped out, then propped his elbows up on the glass until he could see the Winchesters properly.

“I had fun today,” he told them.

He was unsurprised by Dean’s pressing need to tack on, “Maybe if Daddy lets you, we could do it again sometime, Princess.”

“Shut up, Dean,” Sam said in lieu of him, actually in a position to sweep out and punch his brother’s arm, this time.

Mike shook his head at their antics, then picked up where he left off, “All we did was talk about me, though. Can’t you even tell me if your job went well?”

“It was fine,” Dean said. When he saw the desperate, hungry inquisitiveness that Mike couldn’t quite rein in, he grudgingly continued, “We’re half done. Did the grunt work – the research, I guess you could say – today, but still have to implement it.”

Mike tried vainly to figure out what, exactly, they’d been up to, but his big brain didn’t always come in handy, unfortunately. “I could help you with research,” he finally mumbled, receding from the Impala’s body enough for them to pull away, if they wanted to.

“We know you could,” Sam said. Mike wasn’t sure whether he was being honest or patronizing. “We…we don’t need that, though. As long as it can be avoided, we’ll let you live your life. You’re going to make an amazing lawyer.”

“What does that even _mean_?” Mike wanted to persist. He held it back only by biting his tongue. “Okay. Good luck, then,” he answered crisply.

“Thanks, Mikey!” Dean replied, in a singsong voice that implied he remembered what Mike had said about the nickname and was purposefully disregarding it, just as he was Mike’s sulk.

Mike rolled his eyes, but he was unable to help the twitch of his mouth. He waved goodbye and unenthusiastically wondered why they sped off in the direction opposite his apartment. He supposed they had more to finish up – or, even worse, that they would skip town again.

Oh well. He had work to do – the Spellman briefs wouldn’t proof themselves, after all – and he couldn’t kill time being paranoid about their intentions, not when he couldn’t figure them out in a million years.

He was only certain of one thing: Harvey was waiting.

-

By the time Mike reached home again, the sun had already set, abandoning the sky to a cobalt blanket of stars that might have been beautiful, had he not been physically and mentally exhausted. Not only had he read through all eighty pages of the documentation Harvey needed, but Louis had strutted in near their culmination to hand him the paperwork to a multimillion dollar lawsuit. He honestly hated being Pearson Hardman’s free-for-all sometimes.

He’d been looking forward to coming home, ordering a pizza and possibly popping in one of the bootlegged DVDs he had. In fact, his collection was pretty vast. It spanned from bawdy comedies, superhero films like _The Dark Knight_ , every _Star Wars_ and almost every _Star Trek_ , which he knew at least Dean would wholeheartedly appreciate. After he chained his bike to its rack, however, he found that the Impala wasn’t parked anywhere on the street.

Unlocking his apartment confirmed his fears: his cousins weren’t back yet, were perhaps not coming back at all, but what could he do about it? They were grown men who were perfectly capable of making their own decisions. If that decision was to ditch Mike for another decade to a dozen years, so be it.

He told himself he was okay, the farthest thing from bitter, but when he stripped off his suit, kicked his discarded pile of clothes away from him in a way that would blaspheme Harvey, and stepped into the shower, he acknowledged that it wasn’t just shampoo that made his eyes burn.

He went to bed before he was completely dry and shivered beneath the cool sheets, his appetite lost. Eventually, he fell into an uneasy slumber, beset by nightmares of monster jaws, blood and fire. Nevertheless, none of the dead faces, their eyes wide and mouths cavernous, belonged to his parents. He counted that as the paragon of small mercies.

An indeterminate period of hours later, frenzied knocks on his apartment door freed him of even that. “Who...?” Mike mumbled to himself, squinting at the red numbers his alarm clock displayed. It was a few minutes short of three in the morning.

He heard more bangs and, _“Mikey!”_ a muffled, interspersed cry among the cacophony, then jolted upright and rushed to unbolt his locks.

“D-Dean, what–?” he began to say, but broke off in an, “Umph,” when Sam stumbled at the doorway and fell bodily into him. His hands immediately came up to steady the older man, but Dean was already pulling at Sam’s elbow. He settled his younger brother’s arm around his own shoulders and pushed Mike further inside.

“What’s going on?” Mike asked again, a successful clarification of his question this time. Dean ignored him to bundle Sam onto the couch's futon and slap its messy sheets to the floor, but Mike froze once he realized his own hand was wet. He’d used it to help balance Sam and now blood dripped, wet and slick, from his fingertips. His gaze fixed onto his cousins.

They had changed out of their ridiculous suits, back into what Grammy referred to as the Winchesters’ lumberjack garb. Sam was now propped up against the guest futon's head, a thick splotch of blood blossoming on the lower-right shank of his white shirt, his large hand hovering hesitantly over the wound.

His eyes were the worst, though – wide as the zombies' in Mike's dream, they stared down blankly at his brother's bobbing head, as Dean pushed the torn shirt up to asses the damage and exposed five straight lines, thick enough to be a bear claw's scratch. “Mikey, couldja get your first aid kit?” the eldest Winchester inquired, wary with fatigue.

“W-what happened?” Mike stammered, rooted firmly in place.

Dean's eyes flicked to him, twin chips of emerald, jagged and icy. “Move, dammit!” he barked, which spurred Mike into action.

He hurried out of the room, but stopped in the hall just outside. He hadn't used his first aid kit in ages – not since the time he and Trevor, while high, had decided it would be epic to enact a ninja battle with Mike's kitchen utensils – and it took him a second to recall where he'd last put it. Dean's sharp tone stuck with him, reverberated in his head with too many other thoughts. Since the first moment they met, he'd never been anything but genial to Mike, his snark aside. He'd always treated Mike the way a big brother would.

Eyes screwed shut, Mike released a pent up breath of relief at the images that flashed behind his lids: a small wooden cabinet that the person who'd owned his apartment prior to him had built, the feel of his toilet seat beneath bare feet when he climbed atop it, how he didn't have to reach very far to touch metal handles. Bathroom. It was in his bathroom.

Mike sprinted the rest of the way to his destination and clambered to obtain the first aid kit, sneezing when the particles of dust coating it, in the indent the red plus made, tickled his nose. He then headed back to his living room. Sam seemed calmer now, Mike was allayed to find. The hand that wasn't putting pressure on his wound instead squeezed his brother's.

It was such an intimate moment that Mike felt voyeuristic and didn't want to interrupt, but the lines of pain marring both his cousins' faces left him no choice, so he meekly said, “Um, here it is, Dean.” He stepped scarcely close enough to hand his first aid kit to the older man, before he drew back back, still ready in case Dean needed help.

Soon, however, it became evident that his precaution was unnecessary. Mike watched Dean snap the kit open with precise, practiced motions. The eldest Winchester removed disinfectant and bandages from it that he gently applied to Sam's abdomen, murmuring quietly to him all the while, everything from, “Knew you weren't ready yet,” to, “It's okay, Sammy, it's okay.”

“Just a flesh wound,” Sam mumbled back to him. His eyelids drooped slightly.

“Yeah,” Dean said, but his smile was sad. He unwound himself from his crouch and settled his palms onto his younger brother's biceps, to force Sam flat against the mattress. Then, he picked up the cast off blanket and draped it over Sam, who made a childish snuffle of a sound. “Sleep it off, Sammy. You need it.”

Only after it was apparent that the tall man was lost in slumber, Mike asked, “Will he be all right?” and wrung his hands together. Dried blood had worked its way between the lifelines on them, he noticed with disgusted horror. As soon as he got the okay, he would hold them under searing hot water till they were clean again, till the gore was burned off. For now, he just had to swallow back the bile that rose in his throat for as long as possible.

Dean finally looked at him – _really_ looked, rather than looking through him, like he'd been doing since Sam had gotten hurt – and nodded his head. “Good as he'll ever be, the big, stupid lug,” he said, a fake grin plastered onto his full lips. It pinched slightly at Mike's responding frown and expelled a sigh. “I am so sorry for how fucking awful we've made these last couple of days, kid.”

“No, it's okay,” Mike said immediately. “I really wish you'd tell me what was going on, though. I'm actually not a kid anymore, you know?”

“I know,” Dean replied with another sigh. “You grew up good. You're a good person, I can tell, and I wish I could tell ya _everything_ , but I couldn't do that to you. Just...trust me, okay? We've been tryin' to help people, that's all.”

“I believe you,” Mike said. The tender way that Dean acted around Sam – the way he used to act around Mike, back when he'd been a traumatized child – stated better than anything else, any government record kept by police or teachers, that Dean wasn't a bad man, either, that he was far from it. Mike wished he could let this go, by virtue of Dean's goodness alone, but it harried him like nothing else did. “Goodnight, I guess.”

He couldn't conceal his irritation well enough, if Dean's guilty expression was anything to go by, and it was most telling that Mike was too weary to care. “Uh, you don't have work tomorrow, do ya? It's your day off, right?” Dean asked, an obvious attempt to get back into his good graces, his dimpled smile charmingly manipulative. At Mike's nod, he went on sheepishly, “It's just that Sammy and I haven't been to see Carol yet. She'd have our asses if we left without dropping by to visit her.”

“She would,” Mike said, smiling in spite of himself. Sure, his grandmother looked small and delicate, but she was rather fierce for her age – had to be, to raise first Mike's father, then Mike, all by herself. “You wanna see her tomorrow?” he asked.

“Yeah...if you wanted to, of course,” Dean replied. He shifted from foot to booted foot hopefully.

Mike considered him for a minute. He figured, for all the tumult the Winchesters had caused since their arrival, the least Dean could do was squirm. “I always love visiting Grammy,” he ultimately relented, taking pity on his cousin with a huge grin.

“You virgin,” Dean said in response. His hearty chuckle broke off in a yawn. “You should get to bed, kiddo. I'll take the armchair for the night.”

Mike rolled his eyes at the condescending command, but nodded. First, he'd get Dean a blanket, as the sofa would be uncomfortable enough without. Then he would clean up, get to bed and hopefully sleep well for the first time that week. Sunday was his rare day to catch up on his rest, since he had to wake up with the sun for work Monday through Saturday. And he had to admit, he was especially excited to not only spend time with the Winchesters, but also his grandmother, something he hadn't done in ages.

Who knew when he would get another opportunity like that? A lifetime might just be an accurate estimate, in this case. He tunneled into his blankets, his smile still unwaveringly engraved into his face. No bad dreams aggrieved him this time and he actually thought he might sleep in till noon, if his cousins permitted him that.

-

In the end, it wasn't up to Dean and Sam at all. They weren't even awake yet when Mike's cellphone began to buzz on his bedside table. He threw his arm over his face and groaned.

It was early. That much was evident from the way the sky that peeked through his blinds was a sanguine color. The menacing device stopped, then began to vibrate again. A quick peek at its tiny screen confirmed that it was about the time he woke up for work.

Mike scowled blearily at it, but then he noticed a second notification – _you have four missed calls and two new messages_ – and that woke him up faster than a spilled bucket of ice water might. With numb fingers, he pressed the number two, which would speed dial Harvey, not even bothering to check his voicemail. He knew his boss would prefer him calling directly, rather than have him dillydally.

“Mike?” Harvey picked up by the second ring. Mike gripped his blankets with white knuckles, startled by the way his name cracked like a whip. Before he could reply, Harvey continued, “Check the papers,” and hung up.

“O-okay,” Mike said, to no one but the dial-tone. He staggered out of bed and trembled at the onset of cold that bowled into him, but only paused long enough to grab a dirty shirt before he was at his desk, lifting the lid of the laptop he'd won from Pearson Hardman's IT guy, Benjamin.

Google's generic homepage popped up and he stared at it for a second, tapping at the keyboard so lightly that nothing happened. Harvey had simply said papers, nothing specific, and he wondered if The New York Times would be okay. Its top story related another tidbit of the Ripper case:

 

>   
> _Young Iraqi woman claims to have survived a Ripper attack. “They all said she's a man, but she's old. A hag with no teeth and a cloth sack, so, so ugly. She cut me where my baby is, I felt it, and there's a wound now that wasn't here before. Two big men stopped her at the window when she tried to escape. They killed her and she disappeared,” Neema Malik, twenty seven, told reporter Matthew Cane, quivering and hugging her distended stomach._   
> 

The article went on to dissect the woman's allegations. It featured interviews with detectives who said that the Ripper wouldn't jump out of Neema's ten story apartment, which faced Ellis Island and the sea, as well as her disputing doctor who swore Neema really hadn't had her injury prior to the supposed attack. Her husband was particularly distraught by the attempt on his wife's life and the unknown duo of men who had barged into his home to rescue her. No body had been found.

Like most other New Yorkers, Mike was intrigued by this new information, but he doubted Harvey would get swept up in all the speculation, at least not so much that he'd call Mike on a weekend. He thought about asking the man again, but was saved from his possible ire when the second page's title caught his eye. It bemoaned the loss of a talented artist.

He clicked that one and was immediately greeted by a horrifying picture. Without even reading the footer, he knew it was a Tempest painting. The ink black, realistic splotches of blood, and a canine beast revealed that. His eyes tracked over the text under it and he felt his stomach drop. No wonder Harvey had sounded so unnerved; their client was dead.

>   
> _Rupert Abranksky, famous artist who adopted the pen-name Gale Tempest, was found dead in his townhouse this morning, in front of his final work of art. His secretary, Wendy Godfry, was the first to discover the body and contact police. Early coroner reports suggest Abranksky was mauled by a large animal, but further investigation is required. Police Chief Andrew Lowell gave the statement, “We do not believe that foul play is involved at this time.”_   
> 

The way the image was set up, Mike thought the creature in it could easily be responsible, but it was an unrelated coincidence. The thing looked like a nemesis from one of _Resident Evil's_ games, after all, and wasn't real. Biographies, anecdotes and estimated prices of Tempest’s artwork followed, but Mike closed every window with the click of a button and called Harvey.

“You’ve reached the all-knowing oracle. Unfortunately, I’m helping the Greeks siege Troy again – that Helen was being an uppity diva – so you’ll have to try back later,” Donna’s voice answered, bored. He could imagine that she sat at her desk, filing her nails, and still managed to dominate the office in her usual effortless way.

“Donna?” he asked, which inspired her to do a one-eighty.

“Oh, it’s _you_. Why aren’t you here yet, rookie? Harvey needed your ass an hour ago,” she said, the impatient click of her nails strained through to him. She was probably tapping them on her desk.

“It hasn’t even been half that since he called me,” Mike replied, an explanation more than an argument. No one with even a fourth of his IQ would ever pull that stunt with Donna.

“Tomato, tomahto,” she responded airily. “Just get here soon. Waving a newspaper at you might cheer him up.”

“Yes, your majesty,” Mike said, a grin tugging at his mouth. “I’ll be there ASAP.” He let her hang up first, because she preferred things that way, and started getting dressed. Unofficial day or not, Harvey would chew him out if he came in with street clothes.

It was only after he’d finished and saw his sleeping cousins in his living room that he recalled his prior engagement, and though he didn’t want to let Harvey down when he needed him, Mike was also dispirited by the thought of missing an outing with the Winchesters. He thought about waking them up, so they could all rationally discuss the situation, but Sam’s large frame was flopped peacefully on the bed, his expression placid, and Mike remembered what he'd said almost twenty four hours ago about his insomnia. He couldn’t be selfish and interrupt his cousin's first tranquil night of sleep in who knows how long.

Instead, he quietly crept into the room and momentarily scrutinized Dean to discover whether his position, with his head thrown back on the arch of a sofa, would give him muscle cramps later. Dean snored avidly, though, and occasionally mumbled something about boobs, which meant he was probably fine. Mike shook his head and grabbed a piece of paper from the notepad he had at the desk by the door. He scribbled a quick message on it: _Really sorry. Emergency at work. Visit Grammy w/out me. M._

Then, with a lingering look at his slumbering guests, he forced himself out the door. He had a feeling it would be a long day and the wise thing to do would be to pick up coffee, maybe even some doughnuts, for Harvey and Donna on the way.

Pearson Hardman was empty – almost creepily so, with the majority of its lights turned off – and Mike realized his detour was the right move when Harvey exited the office to meet him. There was nothing outwardly wrong with the man. He was still as immaculately dressed as ever, not a single hair out of place on his head. His fists clenched and unclenched, however, and he was wearing his harassed Harvey suit, the same one he’d appropriated during the fiasco with his former mentor.

“Thanks,” he said to Mike, accepting the coffee his young associate wordlessly handed to him. He waited for Mike to do the same for Donna, who smiled, then beckoned his associate back inside. “You heard about Tempest?”

Mike took a seat at the couch next to his boss and replied, “Yeah, but… What the hell happened, Harvey? He seemed kinda sick when we left him, but the paper said he was mauled. Freaking _mauled_. You don’t get mauled in New York unless you sneak into a cage in the Central Park Zoo or wear a meat-dress around alleyway mutts.”

“I doubt Tempest did that,” Harvey deadpanned with a smirk. He reached over to hand Mike the same documents from yesterday, Tempest’s will at the top of the pile. “That explains this, at least. He probably knew something was going to happen to him.”

“Maybe the mob put a hit out? If they can leave a decapitated horse head in a man’s bed, they can definitely have something, you know, maul a guy,” Mike said, while he searched the will for more clues, even though he knew it was hopeless. He’d seen everything there was to see already. He could recite it word for word, visualize every last stipulation in his mind's eye.

Harvey frowned at him, his eyebrow cocked haughtily. “If you use that word one more time, I’ll string you up by your ugly tie. You’re smart enough to find diverse synonyms,” he replied. “Besides, not everything you see in _The Godfather_ or _The Sopranos_ , as interesting as they are, is accurate. None of the mobsters I know are all that creative.”

“Y-you know _mobsters_?” Mike exclaimed, more surprised with himself for being surprised than with Harvey for associating with criminals. Harvey knew Michael Jordan, enough supermodels to fill three magazines, and George Clooney. _Of course_ Harvey had ties in the mafia.

“I digress,” Harvey said. He shook his hand in the air, as if something unsavory had touched it. “Tempest’s ex-wife, Martha, is coming into town for his funeral in a few days. I don’t think their son will be joining her, but she might have some pertinent info.”

“What do you wanna do today, then? Is there paperwork we’ve gotta handle for him?” Mike inquired. The documents he had were nothing new and didn’t require anything else, so far as he could see.

“Well, when the time comes, we have to prepare a presentation of the will for Martha and we can question her then, but I’d rather not wait so long,” Harvey answered. He glowered at a baseball on his desk, seemingly bothered by the very idea of having to be patient. Mike knew he was used to getting whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted. His boss didn’t let it bplague him for too long, however, and declared, “All we can do, at least for today, is squeeze the first responders at the crime scene for info. It just so happens that Police Chief Lowell owes me a favor.”

“Who doesn’t?” Mike asked, rolling his eyes.

Harvey smirked again. “Just be happy that you don’t need to impersonate a federal agent with _me_ around, puppy. You could learn a thing or two.”

“I’ll bring my notebook,” Mike said, with a breathy, exaggerated air of reverence. He fluttered his eyelashes for good measure and Harvey took a swipe at him from his desk, but missed by a good hand-span.

-

They played Sherlock and Watson for the rest of the day, but even with his connections, Harvey couldn’t piece the mystery together.

“Sorry, Specter,” the police chief told him. “All I know is, this sorta shit happens all over the world, usually to vics that are renowned in some way or other. Actors, businessmen, authors, musicians. Their bodies’ll suddenly turn up, gnawed like a fuckin’ chew toy, and _every single one_ is in cold cases. Not even sure if it’s a serial killer, since some of ‘em die at literally the same time. Might be a crime ring of some sort.”

That validated Mike’s mob hypothesis a bit, but Harvey’s gangster friend also swore they were uninvolved, though they were unmoved by his oath. It was more complicated than a Rubik's cube – which was actually pretty simple, for Mike – and they were no closer to solving the puzzle when the end of the workday neared.

“Ray and I can take you home. I’ll have him put your bike in the trunk,” Harvey said, during a tense dinner he’d seethed his way through. “You should call your grandmother. I’m sorry you missed a day with her for a dead end,” he added more gently.

Mike smiled. He could have mentioned something about the great Harvey Specter apologizing, but it always thawed him out when Harvey did something that displayed how much he cared, such as acknowledging that Mike had ditched his own plans to help him. “It’s okay, Harvey,” he said, earnest as ever. “I’m always around to help you. It’s my job.”

“It is, isn’t it?” Harvey chuckled, then took a final swig of his wine, enough to empty the glass.

Mike just grinned and stood up. “You bring 'round the car, I’ll check in with Grammy,” he said, ignoring Harvey’s inquiry of who the boss was to do exactly that. He dodged the snooty waiters in the restaurant – none of them even looked at him when they were serving – and ducked into the men’s room, his fingertip already pressed into his first speed dial button. He requested his grandmother to the receptionist that picked up.

After a few seconds, a soft voice murmured, “Mikey?”

“Yeah, it’s me, Grams. Sorry I couldn’t visit you today,” he replied, honestly sad that he hadn't been able to. He loved every minute he spent with her, even if they both agreed that allocating more time to his career was worth it. “It’s ‘cause–”

“Harvey needed you, I know,” she said, before she hesitated. He could hear her breathing into the mouthpiece, a lulling sound. “Dean and Samuel told me. You didn’t say they were in town.”

Her voice wavered slightly and he felt guilty for forgetting to warn her. If they’d shocked him with their abrupt reappearance, who knew how startled she must have been? “Sorry, Grammy. I got so caught up with work that I couldn’t call you.”

“It’s okay, Michael,” she replied, but her tremulous speech suggested otherwise. “Please...just visit me as soon as you can.”

“Is something wrong? They didn’t… Did they do something to you, Gram?” He didn’t want to believe that the Winchesters could be capable of hurting her, but if he had to choose between one half of his family or the other, Caroline Ross, who had brought him up selflessly, would always win.

She huffed a weak laugh. “No, no, nothing like that. Can’t I want to see my handsome grandson without something ominous going on? Shame on you, Michael Angelo Ross.”

He blushed at the use of his full name, but she did sound better now, genuinely amused by the effect her teasing had on her grandson, and he was glad. “I’ve gotta go now, Grammy. Harvey’s taking me home. I’ll come see you tomorrow, yeah?”

“Harvey _is_ , eh? You tell him to take good care of you,” she said in a way that made him flush more vividly. She giggled again at his exasperated mutter, then added a whispered, “I love you, Mikey. See you tomorrow, eleven a.m. sharp. I’ll whip you at poker again.”

“Love you, too,” Mike replied. He hung up and was still smiling, even humming a bit, when he reached Ray’s waiting limo.

“Not upset, then?” Harvey asked. He shot his associate a sideways glance.

Mike faltered. She actually _had_ been, but he thought it was okay now. “Nah, I’ll just visit her in the morning. No biggie, dude.”

He chuckled at Harvey’s scandalized scowl and Ray grinned at them both from the rear-view. “Not so different from driving my kindergartener’s school bus, I'd imagine,” the driver said.

Harvey crossed his arms and sulked. “You two are both fired.” His employees shared an amused look, but wisely decided against protesting. By the time Ray pulled to a stop in front of Mike’s dingy apartment, Harvey had already dismissed his supposed anger, anyway. “See you Monday, kid. Don’t be late.”

“Aye, aye, Captain Kirk!” Mike saluted cheerfully and slid out of the limo. He thanked Ray, who had wrestled his bike out of the trunk for him. The man waved him off and reentered his car. Mike watched him leave with Harvey.

With them gone, he was free to observe the street. The Winchesters were MIA again, but he was less worried about it, this time. Despite how fruitless the day’s endeavors had been, he’d cherished his time with Harvey, as usual. It almost made him wonder how something less formal, just them hanging out and not talking shop, would be. Those, however, were taboo notions.

Mike bounced his way up the steps, too euphoric to even curse at the out-of-order sign on the elevator, and entered his apartment. His note was still on the table between the two couches his cousins had occupied, the scrawl on it smaller now, so he picked it up and read it.

 _Went barhopping_ , it informed him. _Won’t be far from your place, Dean._

It was obviously an invitation and Mike briefly deliberated over joining them. That drink with Harvey had been fun, in line with the thoughts he had earlier, but even then it had been for an ulterior motive, to right the accidental wrongs of Harvey’s ADA days and free Clifford Danner. Ever since he and Trevor grew apart, Mike hadn’t been able to simply hang out and have fun. He sorely missed doing so.

But that wasn’t really his life anymore. He had to be pragmatic and going out to get drunk after strenuous overtime at work, when he also had to see his grandmother the next morning, was anything but. Maybe tomorrow, after he spent ample time at the senior care facility and couldn't upset anyone by being hungover. He only hoped his cousins stuck around that long.

That resolved, Mike began to loosen his tie's knot and rubbed at his throat. His wisest course of action would probably be to get undressed and go to bed, since he'd already eaten with Harvey. A yawn cemented that decision. As soon as he tossed his jacket aside and zoned in on the first button of his shirt, however, a knock sounded on his door.

“Uh, guys, that you?” he called loudly. A glance at his clock confirmed that it wasn't even ten yet, way too early for Dean, at least, to return empty-handed. His cousin was a night owl and, to be honest, Mike thought it was more likely that Sam would come back alone, while Dean satisfied his baser needs. The knocking continued without answer or cessation and Mike stopped dead. What if one of them had gotten hurt again? “I'm coming!”

He tripped over the shoes and socks he'd previously kicked off, but righted himself enough on the doorknob to hurriedly open it, before he stopped to stare. There, with her palms shielding her face, stood Gale Tempest's secretary, Wendy, her curly puff of poodle hair almost black in the unlit hallway. Ragged sobs wracked her diminutive frame.

Mike opened his mouth and closed it again, dumbfounded by her presence, but finally stuttered, “U-um, Miss Godfry?” That had been the name on her desk tag and what the papers had called her, a sift through his memory confirmed. “What are you doing here?”

“I...” She pulled her hands off her face and revealed what a mess it was, with mascara tracking dark lines down her cheeks and bracketing her quivering lips. “I can't believe Mr. Tempest is gone! I _loved_ him!”

She burst into a fresh round of tears and Mike wished he could call Harvey for advice, but didn't want to leave the poor girl alone. Seeing her so vulnerable, her sweater-less frame quavering in the cold, he almost felt bad for disliking her at Tempest's house.

“I'm so sorry for your loss,” he eventually said, with an indecisive step forward. He paused when he felt powder crust onto his bare foot, but didn't have a chance to discern what it was because she'd grabbed him to conceal her wet face in the crook of his shoulder. “Wendy,” he exclaimed, gesticulating wildly, but her arms were locked tight around his neck. Vaguely embarrassed, he maneuvered his own around her, neither too high nor too low to be in the danger zone. Harvey would kill him, after all, if their dead client's mourning mistress sued him for sexual harassment.

They stayed in that position for a few minutes. Mike awkwardly rubbed the girl's back as she cried herself dry. Finally, she pulled away, her chin tilted up at him, eyes bloodshot, and he attributed the cold that settled in his bones to his newly soaked clothes.

He molded his frozen face into a compassionate smile. “You'll be okay, Wendy. I bet he loved you, too,” he murmured.

“You're so nice,” she wiped at her eyes and replied. It only served to smudge the raccoon circles around them and, paired with her emerging grin, gave her a hungry, feral appearance.

Mike nodded uneasily. “It's no problem at all. Did you want to come in...or something?” He hoped she had somewhere else to go, someone else to comfort her, and also wished she would decline his offer.

She stared at him for another moment more, before giggling. It was high-pitched in the quiet hall, nails across a chalkboard. “Okay, this was fun, but I'm gonna gag if I hafta keep at this heartbroken damsel crap any longer.”

“W-wha–?” Mike tried to ask, but she lifted her hands to him again. This time, she aimed for his neck and pushed him into the wall beside his apartment's entrance with enough force to pummel the wind out of him. Her face drew close to his and he began to struggle against her, scratching at her tightened fingers, but she was too strong.

“Poor baby,” she said, her breath metallic in his face. “You don't even know what's going on, do you?” She laughed again, as Mike coughed weakly and became too tired to wriggle. “I can't say I blame you. Never thought that finishing one of my Daddy's deals for him, Devil curse his wretched soul, would end up with me and my boys reuniting. Never thought they'd been hiding a shiny trove of gold like you for all this time, either.”

The brown of her eyes furled black and Mike's jaw dropped in horror. Who was she? What did she want with him? What the fuck was going on? Rather than answer his mute questions, she grinned, surged forward and took the opportunity to latch hungrily onto his mouth, her teeth jagged against his tongue.

He couldn't even scream when fetid smoke choked down his esophagus and consumed his entire body.

When the Winchesters came home, they found their cousin's door open a crack, a girl's body haphazardly booted inside, and the pungent odor of sulfur, of death.

“ _Fuck_!” Dean cursed, kicking at an already chipped wall. Sam was inclined to concur.

-

Harvey dropped his associate off, told Ray to go home, and decided the best way to end his horrible day would be to pop open the thousand dollar _Chteau Le Pin Pomerol 1999_ he’d been saving.

  


He had hardly poured a fourth of a glass when he heard his front door’s lock chink and froze in place. From his position on his imported Japanese divan, he could see the knob turn slow as one in a horror flick, just before the killer entered and shattered the peace. The shock of blond hair that butted through the opening was almost a relief.

“Harvey,” Mike greeted him, his blue eyes brighter than the most expensive sapphires. Although there was no way for him to ride his bike and achieve it, his hair and clothes were as neat as Harvey had ever seen them, which suggested he’d probably sprung for a cab.

“What are you doing here, Mike?” Harvey gritted out. “You aren’t drunk again, are you, rookie?” He ignored the fact that his own drink was mere inches away from his longing fingers to frown at the unrepentant young man. Mike merely smiled, no more or less wider than his usual effervescent grins, but it twisted something in Harvey’s belly. Too much teeth. “What are you doing here?” he inquired more tersely.

Mike took a step forward, practically a skip, and said, “I needed to see you,” so plainly that you’d think he was discussing the weather, like he was stating a _fact_. Thirty degrees outside, slight chance of rain, and Mike Ross needed Harvey Specter.

Harvey cleared his throat and dispelled the ridiculous thought. “It could have waited till Monday,” he said. He wished he hadn’t taken Mike’s drunken request for a key seriously. Now that the kid had bonded with his doorman, Harvey would never get rid of him.

“No, Harvey,” Mike alleged, an edge to his tone that betrayed his evident cheer. “Don’t you think we’ve both waited long enough? Why should we, anymore, when it’s what we want? Why should I keep denying it to myself, like a moronic child who hasn’t yet gone through puberty? I'm done.”

The self-deprecation took Harvey by surprise. He already knew that his associate didn't have half his swagger, and the steady stream of hazing at Pearson Hardman probably didn't help, but Mike ordinarily preferred to berate himself in private, so reflective that it vicariously hurt _Harvey_ to watch him ruminate sometimes. His candor was almost chilling, now.

Harvey scrutinized him, then sighed and stood up. “What do you want, Mike?”

The younger man smiled again, an uncharacteristically devious twist of his lips, then moved to meet Harvey halfway. His hand caught the turtleneck of Harvey's sweater and used it to reel him in. “You,” Mike announced, breath fanning sultry hot over Harvey's face just before their mouths made contact.

Harvey let him do as he pleased, but when Mike's tongue began to prod against his lips, seeking access, he pulled back and settled his hands on the narrow jut of the kid's hips. “You sure you wanna to do this?” he asked, completely somber. He couldn't stop wondering what had brought this on.

“Don't tell me the great Harvey Specter will turn down a lay over _feelings_?” Mike said with a scoff. “Unless...you're actually not interested.” His eyes rose to hold Harvey's and read him the way he did any of his assigned documents.

Harvey mentally snorted. Not interested in Mike? He'd been thinking about having Donna stand guard as he ripped every hideous article of clothing off the little troublemaker even during the interview, so he could concurrently teach Mike what happened to bad boys while he made use of the nice desk the hotel had loaned to him.

“I just don't want to deal with a nostalgic virgin in the morning, is all,” Harvey replied, assuming a hungry leer, not wholly unfeigned.

He half-expected Mike to shy away now, flustered by their flirting, but his associate merely smirked, the twist of his lips long and lazy. “Unless you've been holding out during our heart-to-hearts, that's not gonna happen, boss,” Mike replied. His palms rubbed Harvey's ribcage slowly through cashmere, before they rose to grasp his shoulders. His nails dug in deep there and incited a wince from the older man, who gasped when he was pushed back to reacquainted his ass with his couch. Harvey and Mike's limbs entangled, Mike straddling his lap.

“What now?” Harvey asked. He'd been trying for a blend of composed and sardonic, but the words that escaped were curious, even strained.

Mike grinned and arched to nip his jaw. He ran his hands over the sleeves of Harvey's sweater, then coerced the man's arms rearward into the small of his back. Harvey shivered at how cold Mike's skin was against his, but it was soon replaced with something long and silky, bound tight around his wrists, before he could ponder for too long.

“My tie,” Mike explained, which prompted Harvey to stare at his now bare neck, where the collar of his shirt was splayed wide, the first few buttons undone to bare pale skin. He hadn't even seen Mike take it off. “You're always saying that it's useless, aren't you?” his associate continued saucily. “Lemme prove you wrong, boss.”

It wasn't a request and Harvey's, “I'm never wrong,” deteriorated into another groan when Mike kissed his neck again. He abruptly stuck his hand into the older man's pants, where he palmed Harvey's growing erection through his briefs.

Mike grinned. Harvey felt the kid's mouth shift along the column of his throat, followed by a warning nip against the sensitive flesh, Mike's teeth jarringly sharp. “You like this,” he said, close enough that his chuckles reverberated from his chest to Harvey's.

“I do,” Harvey permitted slowly. He'd never seen Mike so bold, even when the kid was right about something, and he wanted to watch the situation play out, no matter how disorienting it proved itself. It was the same principle that applied to his love of spectator sports. He craned his neck back so their eyes could meet and felt gooseflesh rise at what he found within Mike's. The blue orbs had muted to a stormy gray, eyes reminiscent of the serial killers Harvey used to put away, _predatory_ eyes.

Mike's mouth quirked. He pecked it against Harvey's, suddenly reminding the older man of when Donna had called Mike a baby bird that imprinted on him. It was sweet then, scorching hot now, as Mike rolled his palm over the base of Harvey's erection, plying it flat against his toned belly, before closing his fist around it to pump. Up and down the funnel of his hand went, cold even with the protection Harvey's rapidly staining underwear provided.

“Hn, I'm gonna...” Harvey said. His hands shimmied in their bonds. His nails dug into his own skin the longer he remained trapped.

“No, you're not,” Mike replied with a grin. His voice dropped down to a whisper. “Give it up to me, Harvey, just the once. Give me your famous control.” Before Harvey could answer, his associate pulled away into a standing position. “No,” Mike said, to halt his boss's attempt to follow him. Harvey sat back, frustrated, and watched as Mike slipped out of his cheap pants with methodical attention. Mike folded and set them on Harvey's table, his eyes on the man the entire time, while his naked hips sashayed like a ten grand hooker's.

Harvey barely refrained from ordering him to hurry, but the second his iron control was about to collapse, Mike returned and plopped down into his lap, bare skin to Egyptian cotton that Harvey used to be fond of, but now constituted the worst torture.

“I'll leave the shirt on. I can tell it gets you hard,” Mike said. He rubbed his crotch against Harvey's with an emphatic mewl and his hands gripped the man's shoulders roughly. Harvey despised his smug logic, more so hating the pleasure he derived himself.

“C-can't you move this along?” he asked, proud that only the first word hitched.

Mike grinned at him. For a terrible, terrible moment, Harvey feared he would request something outrageous, make Harvey beg for it, but he wriggled his ass atop Harvey's knees and tugged the elastic strap of his briefs down, till they were at least mid thigh, then clung to Harvey's shoulders again. Using them to lift himself, his knees holed into the sofa cushions on either side of Harvey, Mike aligned his hole with the engorged head of his boss's cock.

“Wait!” Harvey said. He chafed his wrists to try and slip out of Mike's tie again, so he could halt the younger man by his waist. The lust roiling through him, a heavy pit in his stomach, made it difficult to stay focused on his own motor functions, much less his morals, but as eager as both he and Mike evidently were for this, he didn't want the kid to ruin the night for himself with his own obliviousness. “Mike, have you ever done this before? Because–”

“Shh,” Mike bent his head to murmur into Harvey's lips, quelling his protests. “This ain't my first rodeo, cowboy.” Harvey's gut wrenched at the offhand comment, but Mike chose that moment to sink down. The crown of Harvey's cock squeezed past Mike's tight pucker of muscle, which extracted a synchronous cry from the pair.

Any further objection was lost as Mike rode him. Their moans, skin slapping together and the squeaks of Harvey's leather couch drowned everything else out, as well. Mike was dry and hot around Harvey's dick, lubed only by pre-come and something else Harvey didn't want to identify, that he knew might be staining his thighs red if he looked. He didn't, though. He didn't want to think about anything that would spoil this. He especially blocked out thoughts of how he'd imagined it would be, how he'd _wanted_ it, with Mike pink, pliable and sincere beneath his talented hands. Maybe if he were the childlike associate, he'd dwell on what-ifs, but only reality mattered – _could_ matter – to Harvey Specter.

The younger man's fingernails gouged through Harvey's sweater and found purchase in the skin beneath, as Mike relocated the other to clasp his own erection, his thumb swiping its dewy head the way Harvey wished he could. He'd do it gentler than Mike, who compressed his fist in a way that looked painful more than pleasurable, his blissful grin aside. He'd lightly roll Mike's balls in his palm, search past them to prod at his already full entrance, stimulate the kid's nipples and ass till he was sobbing with joy.

“F-fuck,” Mike said, tugging his cock in time with his impalement on Harvey's. The pretty flush on his cheeks told Harvey a moment before Mike's seed spurted onto his sweater that his associate had reached his orgasm. Then, Mike went rigid around him and milked his dick dry. Harvey came with his own grunt.

A panting Mike flopped forward on his chest, his fingers latched onto what fabric of Harvey's turtleneck hadn't yet been tarnished, and they remained like that for a few minutes, literally heart to heart, save for their clothes and bones. Harvey's heartbeat was embarrassingly fast. He wouldn't have minded, had Mike's been the same, but the steady thump-thump helped Harvey catch his own breath, at least, when he centered on it.

Mike angled away from Harvey too soon and deftly slithered out of his lap to stretch. “You were as good as I always figured, Mr. Specter,” he purred. The leer he wore made Harvey feel dirty. He _was_.

“Untie me,” he said, quieter than he usually was after a good time.

Mike smirked at him, bent low, and picked up both of their pants, tossing Harvey's at him. They hit the floor, the opening at the top barely engulfing Harvey's bare foot. “I'm gonna go wash up, if you don't mind,” Mike informed him. He sauntered away while naked, oblivious to the semen and other bodily fluids that trailed down his legs.

Harvey stared after him – just a stare, rather than the glower he might have been able to summon up, if Mike hadn't shocked the strut out of him – before he wiggled out of his underwear. When it reached his ankle, he kicked it off and slipped out of his sweater in tandem, suddenly finding them both stifling. His pants were still twined around one foot and, with some difficulty, he managed to lift them up his legs, not quite over his hips yet. That alone left him sweaty, even his undershirt too hot, as he delicately picked at Mike's tie, hoping to unwind its knot.

Thankfully, in his attempt at subterfuge, Mike hadn't put much effort into it. Harvey's nail dug under the flap of tacky silk and loosened it till one hand was free. Mike's skinny tie became an improvised bracelet around the other's wrist. With it gone, Harvey stood up and nearly stumbled into his table, but refrained at the last minute and instead stooped to pick up his discarded briefs. He used them to wipe away the excess mess on his flaccid dick, then threw them back into the pile of unwanted apparel to re-situate his pants.

He dusted them off discretely, eyes on the hallway that led to the bathroom, where Mike had sequestered himself. Harvey slowly trudged down the narrow path to stop at the door. If he listened carefully, he could hear the low tenor of his associate humming, an eerie sound unlike his everyday renditions of Indie bands Harvey would never subject his own ears to. This one was practically tuneless or too old to be identified. He also perceived a metallic tap-tap-tap against his porcelain sink bowl and wondered if Mike was shaving inside.

“Rookie?” Harvey inquired hesitantly. Fate must have sensed his intentions, because he heard a knock then – rather, an _attack_ against his front door that impelled him to question his doorman's suitability for his task – and Mike went suspiciously silent. “I'll be back in a sec,” Harvey muttered to him.

“No!” Mike exclaimed. He threw the door open and nearly hit Harvey, who grimaced, but Mike's sheepish smile and the continued siege upon his door kept him from rebuking his associate.

Harvey whirled back the way he came and ambled off, Mike's footfalls soundless as a cat's behind him. They reached the door, through which angry cries accompanied knocks. The second Harvey unlocked it, an arm secured over his neck and tugged him into the middle of the room, its base putting uncomfortable pressure on his larynx.

“What are–?” Harvey coughed out, stunned by the razor pressed into the lateral of his neck, precariously close to a vein. Mike smiled into the curve between his neck and shoulder, his eyes on the entrance, which slowly admitted his cousins. Although they were dressed more sloppily than ever, their matching, dangerous green eyes gave them an intimidating air, a contrast to Mike's soft baby blue.

“Who are you?” the shorter one, Dean, barked. Harvey's eyes bulged when he saw that the man harbored a knife in one hand, while his brother, Sam, wielded a gun, though he could probably break Mike in half with his gargantuan appendages alone.

Mike chuckled. Out of his peripheral vision, Harvey swore even the whites of the kid’s eyes had blackened to ink, but that couldn't be right, could it? “Come now, boys, don't tell me you forgot?” Mike drawled, his frosty breath stirring the hairs at Harvey's nape. “And here I thought I was your favorite demon.”

“Meg,” the giant spat, which briefly attracted his brother's attention to his contorted expression. It was a name Harvey wasn't the least bit intimate with.

“Was it too much to hope that you'd finished with your fucking games, you black-eyed bitch?” Dean growled, the hand that gripped his knife shaking. “What do you even want with Mikey?”

“Oh, _Mikey_ ,” Mike – or Meg, whoever the fuck that was – mocked, an exaggerated simper attached to his lips. The razor bore down a little and a stinging cut welled beneath its blade. Harvey winced. “I didn't even know about him, scout's honor! Here I was, mindin' my own business, doing a favor for poor Daddy dearest, and you bozos show up, lead me right to him. And to think, a cousin of yours might've come in handy during the Apocalypse.”

The nonsense words bounced like a Ping-Pong ball in Harvey's mind. “Mike,” he tried desperately, as he brought his hand up to touch his associate's, but Mike shook him in warning and muttered a gruff, “Shut up,” into his ear.

Dean shot Harvey an admonitory glance, then said, “Oh yeah, I'm positive a kid named Michael would have been a stellar Plan B for old Lucy. That's not ironic at all.”

Mike sneered at him. “It woulda been worth a shot. Too bad you hid him from Lord Lucifer before we had our fun.” He lowered his head to kiss Harvey just above the summit of the razor, tongue lapping out to collect droplets of blood. “Then again, I might not have had the opportunity to do _this_ , if you had. The fantasies little Wendy had about this man, you couldn't imagine.”

“And you're just too self-serving for that, aren't you?” Mike cocked his head at Sam's bitter statement. He bore his teeth upon observing how the man's gun arm rose.

“Come on,” Mike laughed, as an eyebrow rose. “You expect me to believe, Sammy boy, that you'd shoot your own flesh and blood, your kid cousin, to get rid of little ol' me? You, Mr. family-is-everything?”

“We'd do what's necessary,” Dean answered for his brother, but his eyes flashed warily to Sam's face. Even Harvey, who didn't know the man at all, could read the conviction there.

Sam's mouth pursed. His arm was ramrod straight, still aimed at Mike's forehead, his large finger curled on the trigger. “I know,” he began, with weary resignation, “that Mike would rather die than have one of _you_ riding him, hurting people that he loves.” He met Harvey's eyes and the older man swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing against Mike's arm. “I know I felt the same way when your boss was still around.”

Harvey could feel Mike quiver behind him, whether from fear or rage he couldn’t quite determine – didn’t have the time to, because his associate shoved him forward. He lurched into Dean's arms and the man dropped his knife, but the distraction wasn't nearly substantial enough that any of them missed Mike's, “You can thank your Uncle Bobby for this spiffy little trick.” No one could do anything but watch, horrified, as he brought the razor up and slashed it across his own throat. Blood immediately gushed out of the lesion, bursting vessels inside, too, so that Mike’s sneering lips painted red. “Still gonna shoot me, Sammy? It'll be a sure thing for poor little Mikey if you do.”

Sam's arm didn't waver, but from the slack look on his face, Harvey thought it had more to do with shock than fervor, not that he could blame the behemoth. Finally, though, Sam murmured, “ _Regna terrae, cantate Deo, psallite Domino..._ ”

Mike's obsidian eyes rounded in horror and his mouth opened in a screech. Harvey watched, stricken himself, as smog of the same color evaporated out of the bloody orifice. Mike started to sway when the last of it was gone and Harvey sprung forward on instinct alone, catching him as he fell, his heart constricting at Mike's startled whimper.

“Harv...” the kid attempted to say, any further syllables drowned in the liquid that bubbled past his chin. Harvey could see the wide gash in his neck now, practically a second smile, and Mike felt cold in a different way against his body.

“Hold on, puppy, hold on,” Harvey demanded, gently tucking a soaked strand of hair behind his associate’s ear. Mike didn’t smile comfortingly, didn’t tease him for obviously caring, did nothing but nuzzle into his touch, his eyes hooded. Even that seemed to leech his strength. “What did you do to him?” Harvey shouted, the query directed to Sam, who hadn’t moved an inch.

“I-I, we’ve gotta call an ambulance,” the man replied, his eyes fastened on his cousin’s deathly pale face. Jerkily, he extracted his phone and pressed a single number.

“No time for that,” his brother cut in, expression grim. They were by no means feeble men, but Harvey wanted nothing more than to put his boxing lessons to use on their stupid, hopeless, pretty faces. That would require setting Mike down, however, and the thought alone made him clutch the kid closer. Then, Dean’s eyes flicked up to the mural that overtook one of Harvey's walls, angels that Tempest had actually painted onto the surface for him, caught amidst their love and war. “Cas!” the eldest Winchester cried. Harvey had never heard so much anguish apportioned to one word. “Get your feathery ass down here, Castiel! W-we really need you! _Please_.”

Harvey forced himself to gaze away from the deranged man when Mike sighed. It was a soft, almost tranquil sound. His associate’s eyes had fluttered shut. They wouldn't open again, no matter how hard Harvey tried.

-

It wasn't pain that woke Mike, though certain synapses within his brain were aware of a dull ache in his lungs. No, it was a steady beep-beep-beep, occasionally interrupted by a sharper, more musical note, and someone's hushed, one-sided conversation.

“I told Jessica not to reassign my cases to Louis.” Harvey's voice seeped into his consciousness and overpowered the weight on his eyelids. Mike forced gummy lashes apart to blink at the man, who was immersed in the cellphone stuck to his ear.

Mike tried to speak, but a burn enveloped his throat. He belatedly realized that a tube ran through it, smaller components hooked to his nose. Though it was a minor inconvenience, he still felt tears brim cool along his cheeks and, rather than brave it again, he extended his hand. Harvey's fingers picked distractedly at his blankets, within reach of Mike's own.

The man jolted back in his plastic chair when their fingertips made chaste contact. He immediately snapped his phone shut and said, “You're awake!” A smile grew along his mouth that Mike had never seen before, but he wasn't sure whether to allot the palpitation of his heart to that or the fact that Harvey had closed the distance between their hands.

Mike swallowed around the tube and opened his mouth again. Before he could hurt himself, Harvey disentangled them from one another, but only to backpedal and flag down someone outside. “Doctor!” he called.

A woman immediately bustled through the door to fulfill his bidding. She was middle-aged, round, and wore thin gold spectacles. Her smile matched her motherly demeanor, tender to the point of being suffocating. “How are you feeling, dear? I'm your physician, Doctor Cameron Lopez.”

Mike nodded his head, unable to do much else. She took the hint and helped him remove the respirator, anyway, because Harvey waved an impatient hand toward the contraption. Mike sucked in hungry gulps of air when it was gone.

“W-what's...?” he stuttered, before grimacing at the metallic, tangy taste that tickled his throat.

Doctor Lopez tutted at him. “You...cut yourself, dear. Terrible accident, but you're lucky. It missed your carotid artery by this much.” She indicated with the tips of her thumb and index, barely holding them apart.

“Oh,” Mike said. He weakly raised a hand to touch his neck. Rough gauze met him there. At the center, just over his Adam's apple, it felt especially moist. He swallowed back bile.

“Will you give us a moment, Doctor?” Harvey asked, his eyes focused sternly on Mike. The woman frowned at him, affronted, but he paid her no mind. With a huff, she evacuated the room and Harvey returned to his chair, where he pried Mike's hand away from the bandages with his own. He kept it safe between both of his, thumb tracing the IV tape.

“What happened?” This time, Mike's question was cohesive. His gave the room another cursory glance, then settled his eyes on Harvey's face.

Harvey gave him a disbelieving look and sighed. “It's been almost three days and I still don't really know. Your cousins tried to explain it to me. Monsters exist, a demon possessed you, an _angel_ saved your life.” Harvey made a face, though Mike didn't blame him for it. It would be weird to learn, after living your whole life shaping your own fate, that there was some higher being to judge you out there. “It healed you just enough that the authorities weren't suspicious.”

Mike believed. He was spiritual more than religious, perhaps, but he'd always thought some things were beyond human explanation. There was no way it was a lie. That thing – that _demon_ – had blocked him off into some clustered corner of his mind, but images continued to breach that barrier: things it was doing to people while wearing his face, what it had done with Harvey, what it did before finding him. It had seen Hell and, through its eyes, so had Mike.

“Where are–?” Mike finally asked.

Harvey's hands compressed around his, the man's mouth set severely. “They had to go, Mike. Said they couldn't stick around because of the police.”

“Oh,” Mike said again, no less beaten than earlier. That made sense. If this was the kind of stuff they did on a daily basis – and the demon, _Meg's_ , memories corroborated as much – then it made sense that they'd be wanted by well-meaning, but ignorant authorities. Who would believe them if they claimed they were hunting monsters? Mike struggled with the concept himself, despite seeing it firsthand.

“But it's okay!” Harvey exclaimed. It spurred Mike out of his melancholy. “I talked to Jessica and–”

“Jessica?” Mike repeated, too tired to hide how incredulous he was. Even at his most confused, that made no sense.

“Yes, Jessica,” Harvey went on, glowering at him for the disruption. “Evidently, she dated a man like your cousins, a _hunter_. Rufus or Rupert something or other. She learned from him how to protect herself. There are hidden symbols all over the firm, the glass is made of some special quartz. She gave me a source to get my apartment and car remodeled in the same way.”

Mike simply stared at him, unable to calm his manic thoughts enough to formulate a response. Although he'd apparently slept for the last three days, his bones had the telltale heaviness that he associated with imminent sleep.

Harvey noticed, as always, and his smirk softened into a smile. He squeezed Mike's hand again, fingers brushing over his knuckles. “Rest, Mike. Everything's okay.”

And Mike believed him.

-

Another three days later, Mike was released from the hospital.

“You don't have to do this, you know?” he told his boss, who was currently escorting him up to his apartment.

“I do,” Harvey countered. He hefted Mike's bag, which Donna had packed for his 'vacation', till it notched up on his shoulder. “If I didn't, Donna would've skinned me alive.”

Mike chuckled, but it was forced. “You didn't have to, uh, invite me to your place, either,” he said with a blush.

Harvey assessed him for a moment, as he started for the stairs, once again silently damning the broken elevator. Then, with uncharacteristic caution, he murmured, “What happened in my apartment that night, I am sorry, Mike. If I had known, I _never_ would have let it. I didn't want whatever we have to start like that.”

“I know,” Mike said. Although it hurt to, he laughed with more conviction this time. He had no doubt that Harvey could make even a demon succumb to his whims. He wouldn't be Harvey, otherwise. “Thanks,” he mumbled to the man, heartfelt despite his abashment.

They reached his doorway and Mike hesitated. This was where the demon had possessed him, where it had ditched some other victim like an out of fashion outfit to _violate_ him. He fumbled with his keys, then jumped when Harvey's hand fell on his shoulder.

“Hey, you're just here to grab some clothes, remember? It's okay, kid,” the older man said.

Mike swallowed, nodded, and unlocked his door. His eyes fell on the living room table, on which he and the Winchesters had exchanged notes. His whole notepad sat there now and he walked forward to pick it up warily.

 

>   
> _~~Mikey,~~  
> _
> 
>  _Dear Mike,_
> 
>  _Dean was gonna write this note at first, but you know how he is with apologies, right? But I thought someone owed you one. We're sorry._
> 
>  _We're sorry for abandoning you when you were kid. I've realized, of late, I'm not actually that great a big brother, though I've always wanted to be, and I think Dean might only be good for me, no matter how much I hate saying so._
> 
>  _It's not that we don't care about you. We came here because we did, 'cause we thought it would finally be safe to see you again. I'm so sorry for dragging our shit in behind us. You never deserved to be a part of this life._
> 
>  _Mostly, we're sorry for leaving. I'll admit, it was partly due to cowardice. I don't know what I would have done if you woke up and hated us. I know Dean couldn't stomach it, either._
> 
>  _But you're in good hands. Dean thinks Mr. Specter is an uppity douche. Maybe he's right. I can tell that he cares about you, though. You should have seen his face when you got hurt. I think that's the only reason Dean didn't stick around long enough to give him the shotgun talk, because he knows it's unnecessary, but you have to let him take care of you, Mikey. Let him make you happy._
> 
>  _If I were you, I'd probably never want to see us again. Luckily – for me and you – you aren't me. I'm gonna leave you both me and Dean's numbers and you can throw them out, maybe burn them or call us. If you do the first two, we'll never bother you again, but on the off chance you forgive us, we'll never forget to pick up again. We'll be there for you when you need us, whether because Harvey made you cry or, God forbid, another monster's on your tail. I promise._
> 
>  _Love,  
>  Sam_

  
Mike read the messy handwriting over and over. His thumb traced over every letter's curve and slope, while the other hand's fingers fiddled with the charm at his neck. When he reached the end of Sam's signature, he flipped the page over, then smiled.

-

The End

-

**Author's Note:**

> You can comment on AO3 or on the last chapter on LJ [here](http://ladyknightanka.livejournal.com/21406.html?mode=reply#add_comment). Either way, this was only my second big bang and I had a lot of fun with it, so I hope you did, too. :D


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